


Anthem for a Revolution

by elliebell (Naladot)



Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Band Fic, Canon Universe, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Politics, Protests, industry meta, political protests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2019-12-26 13:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18283406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naladot/pseuds/elliebell
Summary: Jae should have known: people get rid of idols who won’t say what they want to hear.(Or: Day6 writes a political protest album.)





	1. track 001 - my country, my home

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [kpopolymfics2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/kpopolymfics2019) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
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>  **NCT – "Go"**  
> [lyrics](https://popgasa.com/2018/03/14/nct-dream-go/) **|** [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cD8SYW8rjaQ) **|** [supplementary](https://www.flickr.com/photos/143174185@N05/27232932142/) \- [prompts](https://66.media.tumblr.com/4e1236ac29ce35b9584aa612656e2a8b/tumblr_p7ye24qimv1vajttwo1_1280.jpg)
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> This fic was written for K-Pop Olymfics 2019 as part of Team Canon/AR/Future 1. Olymfics is a challenge in which participants write fics based on prompt sets and compete against other teams of writers, organized by genre. Competition winners are chosen by the readers, so please rate this fic using [this survey](https://forms.gle/8EPvm1mSRo48vj2B8)!
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> I'm calling this a "Future fic of the AR flavor" in that it's set in the future, and nothing from the present has been changed, but this is definitely not my predictions of what ~will happen~ and shouldn't be read as such. Everything included here is fiction.

track 001 - my country, my home

* * *

 

_ November, 2023 _

 

Jae tilts his chair back on two legs as he slurps up his soup, glancing at the Los Angeles haze outside the window. “Next week,” he says to his friend, setting his chair back down with a soft  _ thunk _ . He runs a finger over the water dripping down the outside of his glass, spins the globe inside his head, and tries to imagine himself back in Seoul.

 

His friend, a bespectacled 30-something who has never been famous, looks up from his phone and raises his eyebrows. “What’s that?”

 

“My flight is booked for next week,” Jae says. He sighs. “I’m just, I don’t know. Starting to feel it now.”

 

It’s funny, sitting here with someone he reconnected with six months ago after only occassionally liking each other’s Instagram posts for six years. He’s currently living among vestiges of his old life, resumed during a brief interlude in his Kpop dream, and soon to be abandoned again. He met this friend, David, in high school, in the back row of Algebra II, where they’d bonded over Mr. Rojas’s impossibly fast explanations of mathematical concepts they could not comprehend if they tried. (They weren’t trying, but still.) (He should probably go back and find Mr. Rojas some day, just to apologize for being a little shit, but he recoils with embarrassment at the very thought of it.) (Sometimes Jae dwells too much on things he can’t change.)

 

“Are you worried?” David asks. If he’s being honest, Jae envies him—his steady writing gig, his fancy car, his picture-perfect wedding on a cliffside overlooking the ocean in San Diego. Jae’s got a lot in life, far too much to complain, but sometimes he envies the ease with which a stable life settled upon his high school friends. Jae never quite seems to grasp hold of that, instead chasing after dreams flitting slowly away into the sunset, and telling himself he’s got the better deal.

 

“Well, you know,” Jae says. He gestures to the ancient television set mounted to the restaurant wall, where the owners have put a Chinese-language news station on mute. An old grandma sits beneath it, staring rapt at the screen while she rapidly folds dumplings, her face impassive to the march of images. Although Jae can’t read Chinese, the images of Seoul speak for themselves. The top story, all over the world, is the same. Rising tensions on the Korean Peninnsula. Potential for war. Jae half-expects a kaiju to arise out of the ocean—it feels that surreal. “I’ve got—some concerns. Particular reservations. Apprehensions.” He’s just rhyming, now. He runs a hand through his hair.

 

“You don’t have to go back,” David offers, tilting his head with a small, humorless smile. David hasn’t been to Taiwan since he was seven years old, with no plans to go back, lest he find himself eligible for the draft. Jae didn’t have the same problem, since his parents had enough foresight to make Jae renounce his dual citizenship at eighteen, before he had any idea what the hell it all meant.

 

“My career is there, though,” Jae says. “My friends. My girlfriend. All but one of my guitars. So, like. My life.”

 

“Your family is here, though,” David says.

 

Jae looks up at the television screen, where President Won Yoo-suk stands in front of the flag of the Republic of Korea, smiling warmly into the camera, his arm lifted to wave to the crowds before him. A perfectly composed shot, created for worldwide distribution.

 

“The thing is,” Jae says carefully, running his fingers over his glass again, “I think my family almost wants me back there. Since I’m the only one who can go.”

 

David arches his neck to look back at the television, then gives Jae another half-hearted smile. “I’m sure it won’t come to war,” he says. “Nobody wants that.”

 

Jae watches as the camera pans to a wide shot of the adoring crowd. “No,” he agrees. “Nobody wants that.”

  
  
  
  


 

He drives aimlessly, weaving through traffic and laying on his horn whenever someone cuts him off. He’s always been a cautious driver, but something in the hazy sky calls for recklessness. He drives for half an hour before he realizes he’s spent the whole time listening to NPR, which is so not his brand, and he flips it to another station. An old-ish Childish Gambino track pours out.  _ This is America, don’t catch you slippin’ now. _ It’s funny how the years pass by so quickly. Funny how a few months back in L.A. and it starts to feel like home again, returning to him all his teenage fears and insecurities. It’s all just really, really funny.

 

He drives all the way to Santa Monica Pier just because he’d brought Lim here once, a year or so back. She liked touristy stuff, and he enjoyed the benefits of indulging her with sightseeing and Disneyland. He parks and sits for a while in his car, watching tourists pass by bundled in their jackets, visibly disappointed by how the cold snap has ruined their vacation. After a while he gets out of the car, sticking his earbuds in his ears and letting his phone play songs at random as he wanders down the sidewalk and onto the windy pier.

 

Lim told him, a week ago, that the new president of South Korea was more popular than he realized, all the way over here in America.  _ “My friends are putting magnets of him on their refrigerators,” _ she’d said.  _ “Slogan stickers on their water bottles. Jackson’s one of his favorite dinner party guests. You can’t judge everything by what you read in English, you know.” _ Maybe she had a point.

 

“They”—whoever they are—say Won was elected because he united more progressive-minded young people with the economic-minded middle aged, all for the purpose of eradicating corruption in all levels of society. A political miracle. Jae doesn’t know much about that—sure, he majored in Poly Sci in university, but he also didn’t  _ graduate _ , so don’t blame him if he gets his political analysis through promoted  _ New York Times _ ads and unedited rants posted by his friends. What he does know is that the Korea he left and the Korea he’s returning to are as different as summer and winter, and he’s more than a little worried that his band is going to get discharged only to get called back up in a draft.

 

So, he’s selfish, is what it comes down to. He leans against the railing and watches seagulls swoop through the pink-streaked sky, calling to each other in unappealing honks. His phone skips to the next song and it brings him back into consciousness, as he listens to it, watching the ocean swell and crash.  _ And can you hear the sound of hysteria? The subliminal mind-fuck America. _

 

One more week. Jae pulls against the railing and takes a deep breath. One more week.

  
  
  
  


 

“So no one put out a press release?” he asks out loud in his car, glancing down at the dashboard screen where Siri flashes at the sound of his voice. He pulls onto the highway, rising on the overpass into the last dregs of setting sun.

 

“I mean, I guess they did,” Brian says, his voice crackling on the other end of the line. “But seeing guys get discharged doesn’t have the same thrill to it anymore. And it’s not like we’re really idols, anyway.”

 

Two years ago, his band members all enlisted together on the heels of one of their career-best records. Their late-2020 album had topped the charts in Korea, and an English version of the single had even gotten significant radio play in the US and Canada. Twice was still outselling them by any global measurement, of course, and no sane person would pretend that Day6’s accomplishments were anything but an accident, but they’d still done well. (Jae isn’t bitter about the lack of accolades, promise. Cross-his-heart-and-swear-to-die.) (But, like, a bigger plaque on the company’s trophy wall would have been nice, just saying.)

 

The others decided to enlist together because it was the quickest route back to making music again. Staggering their enlistment dates made no sense for a band, and two years ago, the political skies were a beautiful blue. No one was worried about the things they worried about now. 

 

“But they  _ owe _ it to you to do something for your discharge date,” Jae says. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel and swerves into the next lane. “The public, I mean. After voting in the man who  _ stole our song _ .”

 

Brian laughs, the first deep and robust laugh he’s given since he picked up the phone. The worst part of President Won Yoo-suk wasn’t his cultish vibes or glassy-eyed camera stare, but the fact that his campaign had used a Day6 track in their ads. The first time Jae heard his own voice pouring out over images of Won Yoo-suk working in rice fields and holding babies and whatever, he’d thought  _ damn, they just bastardized our song like this. _ And the song they’d picked was “Marathon.”

 

“It didn’t even make sense!” Jae says for the millionth time. “How can you play a song with the lyrics ‘it’s okay to be slow’ when you’re talking about stimulating the economy?”

 

“I mean,” Brian says, a smile still evident in his voice, “It stimulated JYP’s economy.”

 

“Why does that sound vaguely dirty?”

 

“It’s politics, man,” Brian laughs. “It’s all dirty.”

 

“I guess so,” Jae sighs, lifting one hand over the top of the wheel and pushing the other back through his hair. The sky is a deep indigo, streaked with orange, glowing through the cars in front of him. Hundreds of people rising on a concrete peak, slamming down their hundreds of gas pedals, desperate to  _ go _ . Sometimes Jae isn’t sure where he’s headed, is the trouble.

 

“Are you ready to get back?” Brian asks. Somewhere in the back of the call Jae can hear a crackle of voices, probably a bar or a restaurant. He imagines Brian sitting there with his buzzed-bald head, tilting a beer in his hand back and forth as he waits for the answer. Jae hesitates.

 

While the rest of his band served the country, Jae dabbled in solo work, visiting friends back in LA with the vague idea that he could be the Ed Sheeran of Kpop. His songs never really made a dent, but he did play a number of gigs in LA that all scared the shit out of him, and so by going through with them he grew as a person, blah blah whatever. A year of flying back and forth, and somehow, it just feels like he’s been living life with the pause button on his career.

 

“I don’t know,” he says finally. It’s the honest truth, much as he hates it. “What am I going back to?”

 

More static, and someone laughing in the distance. A horn sounds behind Jae as another car speeds around him, revving into the night.

 

“Your life,” Brian says.

 

Jae laughs lightly. “Yeah, I guess that’s true, no matter what happens down the road.”

 

Brian doesn’t say anything. For the peninsula to really stumble into war—Jae tries to recall anything he learned in university, but comes up empty-handed. No one expected Europe to go the way it did, either, but here they are, living in the darkest timeline—or however the kids say it nowadays.

 

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Brian says, his voice thick with some kind of emotion Jae can’t identify, “But I’m glad you’re coming back. We’ve got a new record to make.”

 

Jae laughs. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

 

“See you next week,” Brian says.

 

“See you then,” Jae answers. He hangs up the phone, plunging the car into silence.

 

Jae had been in Los Angeles during the Korean presidential elections of 2022, busy ignoring the articles Lim texted him. Politics in the US stressed him out enough, the new president being two years into her first term and also his friends and family buzzing about immigration and what policy changes might mean for them. He couldn’t quite grasp what was happening in his other home, and in his mind words like “populism” and “cult of personality” from some of the articles battled words like “changing tides” and “march of progress” from the other articles. Who was to say? What was he, a runner-up Kpop Star and a wannabe Ed Sheeran, supposed to know?

 

But now, with 2023 nearing its close, Jae wonders if he should have woken up sooner. Started paying attention earlier. He feels like a zombie, going back to his old life with his eyes closed.

 

He flips on the radio again and starts scanning for another station. The next one up is NPR, again, but he stops to hear the end of the report.  _ As more South Koreans organize anti-war protests, the US State Department has issued a security message advising US citizens to avoid the areas where demonstrations take place. This story is ongoing. _

 

The host comments something Jae doesn’t listen to, then introduces the next song. He listens to it for a moment, drawn in by the familiar warbling voice.  _ There's a battle outside, and it is ragin'. It'll soon shake your windows, and rattle your walls, for the times, they are a-changin'. _

 

“Time to go back,” he says aloud, thinking about walking back into the JYP building and pretending like anti-war demonstrations aren’t happening streets away while he writes pop songs about break-ups and tries to calculate his next paycheck. Somehow, the dissonance weighs heavy on him, as he drives into the electric glow of Los Angeles at night.

  
  
  
  


 

Two weeks later, he flies back home. His real home, maybe. He’s not sure anymore.

 

His plane comes into Incheon in the early morning mist. Jae cranes his neck to look over the other passengers just for a glimpse of ocean and ship lights out the tiny oval window, while his heart thuds steadily in his chest. He tells himself it’s just because of nerves, or indigestion, or something. The plane tips back in the other direction, turning the window up to a swath of pink sky. 

 

As it rights again, Jae finally glimpses the motherland out the window. The swell in his chest at the sight of it isn’t anything except love.  _ Home. _

 

The plane bounces and hurtles to a stop. People chatter around him as he switches his phone on and watches a stream of messages pop up, only stopping to open the most important one.  _ Waiting outside baggage claim~ _ He smiles to himself as he opens it. For the umpteenth time, he remembers that he is lucky beyond measure.

 

It takes over half an hour to get through immigration and to get his bags, but when he finally does stride through the doors out to the terminal, his guitar strapped to his back and suitcases on the cart in front of him, he sees Lim grinning at the end of a row of cab drivers and holding a handmade sign that reads  _ Welcome home! _

 

“I’ve been here for an  _ hour _ ,” she teases as he pushes his cart up to her. “I blame you—you were gone for literally three months, why did you need all this luggage?”

 

He laughs and wraps her into a hug, deliberately pushing her face into his chest. He’ll have makeup smudged all over his shirt, but it’s worth it for the squeal she lets out. “I brought you stuff,” he says.

 

She says something, but it’s muffled because he’s still got her squished up in his arms, so he lets her go and takes in her mock-indignant face. “My stuff is what, like one percent of all this?”

 

“More like ten percent,” he laughs. She rolls her eyes and falls in step beside him, holding onto his arm as he starts to push the cart toward the door. “I can’t believe you just let me  _ hug _ you,” he continues. “In an  _ airport _ . Not worried about the paparazzi?”

 

“Did you call them?”

 

“Yes. I said, yo, Day6 Jae is arriving today, and they said, who? I said, you know, from JYP? They said, we only know Dowoon.”

 

Lim lets out a laugh as they pass through the doors and into the chilly winter breeze. He’s just wearing the jacket he had on in LA, and he shivers. Lim steps closer to him.

 

“I mean, Dowoon is a celebrity like none other,” she says.

 

“Not everyone gets to be the face of Drum Champ International.” Jae laughs just thinking about it. In 2020, Dowoon recorded a one-minute commercial for an elite percussionist summer camp, where he pretended to be a drill sergeant. It remains one of the funniest things Jae has ever seen.

 

Lim laughs again, her hand curling tighter around his arm. Sometimes he wonders how 2015 Jae might have reacted, if he traveled back in time and told him that he’d one day be dating a Wonder Girl, who would drive all the way to Incheon to pick him up from the airport at six in the morning. 2015 Jae might be thrilled, but he’d also say,  _ that sounds fake _ .

 

Back in the day, no one would have necessarily put him and Lim together as a couple, except that they were the same age and got along well. They were friends, full stop. Truth be told he was interested in her in the way he was interested in pretty girls in general, but it led to nothing, and he wasn’t too beat up about it. After all, her ideal type was Nichkhun, and his was existential crisis. 

 

But what made no sense for 25-year-old Jae and Lim made a lot of sense for 29-year-old Jae and Lim. He’s keenly aware that they probably wouldn’t have ended up together if his band hadn’t all enlisted at the same time, leaving Jae with too much free time and too few friends still living in Seoul. Lim was in Seoul again at that point, building up her second career as a translator and television show host. They started out catching dinner every other week or so, then going to the movies and getting brunch on free mornings, and one thing led to another and she kissed him outside a subway station on a late summer evening. (Let it be known:  _ she _ kissed  _ him _ first.) (And throw out the part where he spent two months imagining how to ask her out but never actually following through with it.) 

 

That in itself might not have led to a stable relationship going on two years, but dating each other was easy and natural. They understood each other’s careers and fears and all the weird shit that came with being an artist at JYP Entertainment. They got each other’s jokes and both agreed that a night in playing video games was preferable to a night out at the club. It would make a terrible song, but the truth is that a boring, stable relationship is really frickin’ awesome. Jae never wants to go back to existential crisis again.

 

They reach her car and she teases him again as he shoves his luggage into the trunk. “Seriously, how much of this is just your clothes?”

 

“There’s a whole section that’s just skincare,” he says, gesturing to one of the bags. “I’m trying to keep my baby face fresh for you, babe.”

 

She wrinkles up her nose. “Trust me, your baby face isn’t going anywhere. My client saw a picture of you on my phone and asked if you were a college student.”

 

He pats his cheeks and grins down at her. “See? Worth the luggage space.”

 

He starts to push down the trunk door, but she stops him, pulling him into a kiss.  _ Outside _ —he’s instinctively nervous but also so proud of her. When they started dating, her idol mentality was still in such a high gear that she wouldn’t even stand close to him if too many people were around. She breaks away and his eyes go wide. 

 

“Getting  _ bold, _ damn.”

 

“Shut up and get in the car,” she laughs.

 

He obediently shuffles over to the passenger seat and and falls in, exhausted from the hours of flying. The car slips quietly out of the parking lot and into the rosy morning. He wishes he could go back and tell 2015 Jae that he’d be more or less at peace with himself someday, too. 2015 Jae wouldn’t believe any of this—not Lim or the general sense of okay-ness that has settled over him these past few years. Call that a win for Jae, and a loss for anxiety. His worries tend more toward the external these days: career uncertainty, potential war, that sort of thing.

 

Lim is a very good driver, but she always stares down the road very intensely, and he likes trying to sneak pictures of her while she’s driving just so he can laugh at them later. He looks over now but finds her unusually pensive, caught up in the pink morning glow, like something out of a dream. He reaches over to brush loose pieces of hair back behind her ear, letting his fingertips rest for a moment against her warm skin, until she looks at him and smiles.

 

“I want to hear what you recorded,” she says, nodding in the direction of his phone. “I don’t know why it had to be a big secret.”

 

“Because I like to see your face when I play the songs,” he says.

 

“We can do that over FaceTime.”

 

“Hardly the same.” He pushes a couple buttons and his phone connects to her car’s sound system. A moment later, they’re listening to the intro of a song he wrote with a couple of buddies, a gentle indie tune. It goes a little too hard to be appropriate for Korea’s enduring fixation on boring coffee shop background music, but he can tell Lim likes it by the way a smile curls at the corner of her lips.

 

“You know,” she says when the song finishes. “You should stop calling yourself an Ed Sheeran-wannabe. I think you’re much better than him.”

 

“You’re biased,” he says. “If Ed Sheeran started bringing you coffee at work, you’d say that to him, too.”

 

“I don’t know,” she muses. “He kind of looks like a fish.”

 

He barks out a laugh and hits play on the next song. “You know what he looks like? Ron Weasley, drawn by Studio Ghibli.”

 

She covers her mouth with her hand as she laughs. “You should Tweet that.”

 

“Twitter is dead. A relic of an earlier age.”

 

She squints at him. “You were literally Tweeting yesterday.”

 

“I, too, am a relic of an earlier age.”

 

“Right?” She pushes her hand back through her hair and then gestures out to the road. “I didn’t know thirty-one would feel so  _ old _ .”

 

“Well, you’ve got more experience than me,” he says. He looks out as they pull onto a bridge, speeding out over the glittering water, the sky a watercolor painting overhead.

 

“I’m fifteen _ days _ older than you.”

 

“Fifteen days of wisdom.”

 

“Whatever,” she laughs. “I like this song, too.”

 

They listen to the other three songs he recorded, talking them over in the mixed Korean and English that feels more natural to him than any other way of speaking. The last track finishes and the next song is by The Killers—he hasn’t listened to this one in ages and he’s transfixed as the song builds in time with the sky brightening around them.  _ I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier _ .  _ I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier _ . He wishes he could write a song like this. Pour his heart into this moment in history.

 

“I ran into Sungjin the other day,” Lim says suddenly, glancing over at him. “He seems good. Happy not to be in the army.”

 

“I’ll bet,” Jae answers. But his words sound hollow, a rote answer for a gargantuan question. He hasn’t exchanged more than a few cursory messages with anyone except Brian recently, but they all made plans in the band group chat to get together in a few days, after Jae gets over jetlag and Wonpil gets back from some fancy overseas trip with Jinyoung. “I don’t think anyone wants to be in the army right now.”

 

He can tell Lim wants to say something that she isn’t saying by the way she fiddles with the hem of her shirt, one hand still on the wheel, and chews at her bottom lip. Earlier in the week they’d spent nearly half an hour of their regular FaceTime call talking about President Won and the ongoing negotiations about some North Korean ship in South Korean waters, and by the end of the conversation, Lim looked more worried than she’d been when they started talking.

 

“Jae?” she says. She glances over at him with wide, dark eyes. “I’m really scared.”

 

Now is the moment when he’s supposed to be a man, save the day, whatever. But the truth is, she’s just named the feeling gnawing at his insides. He’s scared, too.

 

“I know,” is what he says, reaching over to clasp his hand over her fidgeting fingers. She stops playing with the hem of her shirt and interlaces their fingers, instead, holding on so tight it almost hurts. “It’s going to be okay.”

 

“I don’t know that you can guarantee that,” she jokes, giving him a small, humorless smile.

 

He just holds onto her hand, all the way into the city, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

  
  
  
  


 

A few days later he reunites with his band at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant tucked down a back alley, away from any prying eyes of fans. After exchanging melodramatic hugs and Dowoon pretending to cry tears of joy for about five minutes, they take a table in the back. They decide to order an inordinate amount of food—they habitually ordered an excessive amount back in the day, too, but apparently the others’ appetites have increased exponentially thanks to increased exercise and crappy military food. All four of his band members have buzzed heads and unusually muscular frames, reminding Jae of just how long he’s been gone.

 

“It’s a fucked-up system to start with,” Brian is saying to Sungjin while Wonpil gives the server their order, “But they’ve got to realize that yeah, we spend two years in the army, but most of us don’t leave as real, functioning soldiers.”

 

“The only thing it prepares you for is taking orders,” Sungjin agrees. “Or giving them. And lengthen the required service time, you’re just making guys wait a whole lot longer to get out. Watch how well they take orders then.”

 

“I don’t think President Won is going to get that passed,” Dowoon interjects, his brow creasing together. “I mean, that’s like the one thing that everyone is opposed to.”

 

“Unless there’s a war,” Brian points out as he pulls chopsticks out of the box on the table. “Then watch how fast people change their minds. Next thing you know, they’re calling us up to go back.”

 

Wonpil thanks the server and turns back to the group with a wide, fake grin. “Can we  _ not _ talk about this right now? Please?”

 

Jae takes his own pair of chopsticks out of the box and tries not to look too relieved as the others nod in agreement. He doesn’t know what to do with the vague feeling of guilt that’s crawling over his skin while they have this conversation—the knowledge that he, an able-bodied Korean male, got out of this by virtue of his citizenship. Not that he has any desire to go pretend to be a soldier for two years—but then, who does? 

 

“Where’s Lim?” Brian asks Jae, smoothly changing the topic of conversation. “You could have brought her.”

 

“She thought this should be a band reunion,” Jae answers, standing up to pour water into glasses for everyone at the table. “And she’s working, anyway.”

 

He hands out the glasses as he pours them, taking in his band members one by one. Brian looks healthy and relatively happy, smiling easily at anyone who smiles at him. Jae suspects there’s a new girl in his life, just by his demeanor. Wonpil next to him is tan, apparently from whatever vacation he took as soon as he was discharged, but he’s also a bit withdrawn, though this is not too unusual. Even Wonpil has his quiet moments. Dowoon looks the same as always, tapping his fingers against the table in a fast rhythm, and Sungjin puts both his elbows on the back of his chair, taking up space at the table. He’d been promoted a few times during his service, Jae has heard, though he doesn’t know the details. He has a two-year gap in his knowledge of his band members, it seems. Everything feels exactly the way he left it, but slightly distorted, the way it would be in a dream. 

 

“You know you’re the member in the longest relationship after Wonpil now, right?” Brian asks.

 

Jae grins as he sits back down, trying to play this off as nonchalant. Wonpil was the first to find out about his relationship with Lim—Wonpil had the gossip hookup within JYPE, because the girls found him “precious” and the guys found him non-threatening—and when he blabbed the news to the rest of the band, they’d been only mildly interested, wondering aloud why Lim would date within the company. Well, look at him now.

 

Wonpil gives Jae a look, one eyebrow slightly arched. “Brian has a new girlfriend. He’s fishing for you to ask about it.”

 

Jae laughs and points at Brian. “I knew it. You’ve got that look on your face.”

 

“He does get a look, huh?” Sungjin asks, catching Jae’s eye.

 

“Calm down,” Brian says. He pauses as their server approaches the table and sets down some steaming dishes, then continues once she’s gone. “I didn’t tell you guys because I didn’t know if it was going to come to anything, okay? You always make fun of me. Like you’re doing right now.”

 

“Well, I mean—you’ve never dated a girl that you didn’t want a long-term relationship with,” Sungjin teases.

 

“The term is ‘serial monogamist,’” Jae adds. “This is the love of your life, number—nine?”

 

“I don’t know anything about that,” Brian says, oddly pensive. “She’s pretty great, though.”

 

Coming from Brian, who usually falls hard and fast into love, this new quiet way of talking gives them all pause. For the first time, Jae doesn’t have premonitions of break-ups and chart-topping break-up songs. What  _ would _ it do to his lyrics, if Brian never has another break-up? Jae can’t even fathom the thought.

 

“Okay,” Wonpil says. “Give us the details. I know you want to.”

 

Brian grins and rolls his eyes as he picks up a clump of noodles and transfers them into his own bowl. “Her name is Annie. She’s Chinese-Canadian. We met because she’s my friend’s wife’s cousin and they asked me to check in on her, because she came here to work for tourism company. So when I was on leave, I’d meet up with her.”

 

“Were you sleeping with her?” Sungjin asks bluntly.

 

“ _ No _ . I took her out on nice dates.”

 

“Brian’s only a bad boy for work, remember,” Jae grins.

 

“I feel like that’s an insult, but I don’t know why.” Brian tilts back in his chair. “I don’t know. I like her. I think it could last.” His small, reflective smile returns.

 

“Good for you, man,” Wonpil says, clapping a hand on Brian’s shoulder with all the somber wisdom of a man in a truly long-term relationship. Jae wonders briefly how Wonpil and Jinyoung would negotiate their life if the country really went to war. He takes a bite of ddeokbokki and tries to shove the thought out of his mind, but he can’t help thinking about something Lim said to him a month or so ago.  _ If you were living here, would you be obligated to join the army? _ He doesn’t know the answer to this. He hopes he never has to find out.

 

“Sungjin’s got a lot of nerve making fun of me,” Brian says, glancing up slyly and grinning over at Jae. “Seeing as he just hooked up with Nayeon for the—is it the  _ tenth _ time?”

 

Dowoon’s jaw drops and he turns to Sungjin. “You did what?”

 

“I guess it was getting to be that time of year again,” Wonpil quips, glancing at his wrist as though he’s looking at a watch. 

 

“Okay, okay,” Sungjin says, holding up his hands. The server appears with several dishes over his shoulder, and Sungjin grins up at her nervously, like he’s afraid of what she just heard. He lowers his voice a bit as she walks away. “There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for it.”

 

“ _ This _ time,” Jae laughs, nudging him. “Are you sure? Last time your excuse was you went to see the new  _ Captain Marvel _ movie and you couldn’t help it if she projects her thing for Brie Larson onto you—which, dude, doesn’t even make sense.”

 

“He  _ was _ blonde then,” Wonpil points out.

 

“No, I have a  _ good _ explanation.” Sungjin laces his fingers behind his head and leans back. “Okay, so. Last week, Brian here asked me to go to a bar with him and some other people from the company.”

 

“It was a networking opportunity,” Brian interjects. “If we want to have a good new album, we’ve got to be socializing with the producers.”

 

“Right, whatever.” Sungjin waves a hand. “So there I am, drinking my beer in peace, when all of a sudden I get cornered by Jinyoung and Jaebum.”

 

Everyone lets out a groan. At some point in late 2019, Jinyoung and Jaebum had gotten really, really into investment. Jae doesn’t know what they invest in, because he does not care, but he does know that they legit make a lot of money, and that they staggered their own enlistment dates purely so that the other one could manage their investment portfolios. And that any conversation with either of them will eventually wind back to A) an investment opportunity, or B) why you are not investing your money wisely and how they can help you.

 

“So I’m cornered,” Sungjin says. “And Nayeon is trapped in the booth next to me. And it’s so boring.  _ So boring. _ No offense, Wonpil.”

 

Wonpil just shrugs. “None taken. He talks about it all the time at home and it  _ is _ really boring, but we just went on vacation to a private island off the coast of Italy where we had our own wait staff. So, you know. I don’t complain.”

 

“Is that why you’re so tan?” Jae interjects.

 

Wonpil gives him a smug grin. “The private island glow doesn’t fade.”

 

“ _ Anyway— _ so then Brian comes back to the table,” Sungjin continues. “And he, as you know, actually understands most of what they’re talking about. So me and Nayeon are like, this is our  _ only chance _ . So we ran out of there.”

 

“Yeah,” Jae says. “That—really doesn’t answer the question of why you hooked up with her.”

 

Sungjin shrugs. “I dunno, man. Maybe it was getting to be that time of year.”

 

“Okay, so,” Dowoon pipes up suddenly, putting a hand on the table. “I have a question. No, I have many questions. But I’m going to ask just one. Nayeon flirts with  _ everyone _ . Sometimes I used to walk past the Twice practice room and it was like, whoa, what’s going on in there? So why…” He trails off.

 

“He’s asking why  _ you _ ,” Brian says, poking Sungjin in the head.

 

Sungjin shrugs. “I guess I’m just that likable.”

 

Wonpil waves a finger. “Trainee hang-ups. Some people just get arrested development and are mentally stuck in their trainee days.”

 

“Shouldn’t you point that finger back at yourself?” Sungjin asks.

 

“I didn’t date Jinyoung during my trainee days.” Wonpil sticks his tongue out at Sungjin, who just laughs in return.

 

Jae figures arrested development is probably the best explanation—there’s really no rhyme or reason to why Sungjin and Nayeon are each other’s chosen friend-with-benefits, except that they’ve been friends as long as Jae can remember and seem to have a weird chemistry. In truth, there is no logic to relationships within the industry. No one  _ really _ worries about a who’s-dated-who list leaking, because any fan who saw it wouldn’t believe it. The relationships that are real are far too random, too nonsensical, for anyone to believe.

 

“No, there’s a reason,” Brian says with a sly grin. “Sungjin’s the only person she knows who talks just as much as she does. Who else can she find who will happily keep up a fast and pointless conversation the entire time they’re having sex?”

 

The whole table erupts in laughter, including Sungjin. Jae says “Gross,” at the same time Sungjin says “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

 

“I don’t want this mental image,” Jae says, rubbing tears out of his eyes. “It’s like  _ Bob the Builder: _ X-Rated edition.”

 

A grin comes over Sungjin’s face as he prepares for his next attack. “Listen, Brian,” he says. “Maybe you should be asking yourself why girls are always dumping you, when I can’t keep them away.”

 

He pauses long enough to make it clear that he’s referencing bedroom activities.

 

Jae groans again. “This is so disturbing.”

 

Brian laughs loudly, throwing his head back. “Ouch, dude. That was a really low blow.” He turns to Wonpil. “Don’t tell Jinyoung any of this. He’ll blackmail us.”

 

Wonpil takes a bite of bulgogi and smiles. “Oh, I’m telling him all of this.”

 

“What about you, Dowoon?” Jae asks. “Any news from the exciting love life of Yoon Dowoon?”

  
What most people wouldn’t guess was that Dowoon was the most popular of all of them in idol circles. His dog-like demeanor seemed to inspire some kind of fierce, maternal attraction in both women and men, and he never left Inkigayo recordings without at least three phone numbers tucked into the plastic wrap of his sandwich. Jae makes it a point not to know the details of his love life, but he has no doubts that Dowoon has had far more fun over the years than the rest of them.

 

Dowoon stretches his arms back and gives a smug smile. “I’m living the bachelor life. It’s pretty great. I got a cat.”

 

“That sounds sad but somehow it also doesn’t,” Brian says.

 

“Because the bachelor life is a lifestyle,” Dowoon answers, tilting his head to the side and screwing up his lips in a sideways smile. “I can smoke cigars and eat fancy cheese and who is going to stop me?”

 

Jae pictures Dowoon in his (admittedly very well-decorated) apartment, wearing a dressing gown and sipping whiskey from a glass while he stares pensively out at the falling snow. He catches Brian’s eye across the table and they both try not to laugh.   
  


The conversation winds through more silly, frivolous topics as they polish off the numerous dishes. It feels good to talk about nonsense, but eventually, they’ve all got alcohol in their system, and the conversation turns serious again.

 

“I almost felt like,” Brian says, staring at a spot on the table. “I don’t know. Guilty? For leaving when I did.”

 

Sungjin nods. “My unit was depending on me. And I’m just going to come back and go back to work?” He takes another sip of his beer. “I don’t know if I can sit through a whole fan sign when I know my guys are out there worrying about what’s going to happen next.”

 

They lapse into silence for a moment, and Jae takes the time to look at each of their faces. They’re all changed by their time in the military, even Dowoon, who glances up at him, light reflected in his eyes.

 

“It shouldn’t be this way, you know?” Dowoon says. “It’s never been this bad before. Why now?”

 

“I’ll tell you why,” Sungjin answers, arching an eyebrow. “President Won doesn’t give a fuck about anything except his own power.”

 

It’s a bold, tactless statement. But now that he’s said it, they all sit there, chewing on it.

 

Brian sighs. “I don’t know that I’d phrase it that way,” he says, ever the diplomat. “But—yeah. Something has changed since we elected him in.”

 

“Everyone wanted change,” Wonpil says. “I don’t know that anyone thought we’d get change like this.”

 

“But people are angry, right?” Jae asks, voicing a thought that’s been confusing him for a while. “People are protesting. We’ve—” He pauses, “Or—you’ve—done this before here, gotten a president out of office peacefully. Why not now?”

 

The others all stare at the table for a moment. Then Wonpil looks up at him, giving him a helpless shrug.

 

“Not everyone,” he says. “The thing is—even in the company, I know some people just think President Won is posturing, and once this is over, he’s still going to be the best thing that’s happened to the country in years.”

 

Instinctively, Jae knows this to be true. He’s heard Lim say it often enough—she’s careful to watch her words, constantly phrasing things in the most neutral way, in case her clients are supporters of President Won. He’d campaigned with the promise of fixing the corruption that had bled through every level of Korean society, beginning from the top down, and delivered on the promise of imposing greater restrictions on the business sector, and improved oversight of the police force. These were not bad things, except that he amassed so much personal power in the process. 

 

And many people are neutral. Jae observed this even living in Korea off-and-on and not socializing much. His friends would hear a news report and shrug it off, sometimes with the comment “President Won has already made a huge difference,” and not much else.  _ “I don’t like politics” _ seems to be everyone’s favorite phrase recently, even with war hanging in the balance.

 

They pay the bill and step out into the night. Snow falls lightly, small flakes reflecting the pink and green light of the surrounding neon signs. Jae hums to himself, repeating the line  _ I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier _ under his breath as they all push their hands into their coats and begin to walk toward the subway.

 

“You know,” Jae says suddenly, stopping in his tracks. The others stop and turn to look at him, curious. “We have a platform.”

 

“What’s that?” Brian asks.

 

“A platform,” Jae says again. “We’ve got music. If we feel this strongly about what’s going on—we could say something.”

 

The other four all look at him, everyone’s breath fogging in the cold winter night.

 

“Like a protest song,” Wonpil says.

 

“Yeah,” Jae answers. “Or, I don’t know—just  _ something _ . I can’t just write music and pretend like this isn’t scaring the shit out of me.”

 

“Can we do that?” Dowoon asks, turning to look at the others. Jae can already hear a melody in his head as he waits, something new flashing to life in the back of his mind. The stars are thin pinpricks overhead, winking down at him with some kind of promise.

 

“We could,” Sungjin says softly, his eyes gleaming. His fists are clenched inside his jacket and he catches Jae’s eyes with an intensity Jae has never seen before.   
  


“We don’t have to release anything to the public,” Jae continues. His heart thrums inside his chest. “But just something. Just something.”

 

To his surprise, the others all nod. “Okay,” Brian agrees. “Let’s do something.”

  
  
  


 

 

_ 001 soundtrack _

  
[ this is america ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYOjWnS4cMY) |  [ american idiot ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ee_uujKuJMI) |  [ marathon ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClwEVvUgxEE) |  [ the times they are a changin’ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxvVk-r9ut8) |  [ all these things that i’ve done ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fCK0ttJoWVA)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I wrote a ship based on [one video](https://youtu.be/5r9pNBg42ok). Yeah, [that one](https://www.vlive.tv/video/9703) too.
> 
> Jinpil is legit though.


	2. track 002 - the war is not forgotten

track 002 - the war is not forgotten

* * *

 

 

 

Writing a song is a very small act, in the grand scheme of things. A song can’t redirect the course of history, or change an individual’s mind, or propose a plan of action to diffuse the tension that could lead to war. Jae isn’t delusional. He doesn’t expect a song, or even a handful of songs, to do any of that. But the idea still pulses within him over the next few weeks, a drum beat marching toward some kind of shining beacon in the distance. Maybe it’s providence—a divine call to action. (Maybe he  _ is _ delusional.) All he really knows is, he’s not writing songs so much as he’s channeling them, jotting down ideas as fast as he can.

 

They’re supposedly working on a new Day6 album, which is what they tell their manager when they go into the company building a few days after their reunion dinner. On some level, Jae isn’t really lying. The whole idea of writing an anti-war protest anthem still feels more like a fantasy than anything else. Even if that’s the message he finds himself pouring into every song, he has no intention of actually pushing these songs all the way to the recording studio. He imagines going out busking, by himself or with the rest of the guys, to gauge the reaction of people passing by and see what kinds of videos reach the internet. Not much more than that—after all these years, he’s pretty clear on just where JYP Entertainment draws the lines, and how far he can get his toes over them.  

 

But none of them can successfully write anything else. The melodies and lyrics they bring into the studio feel flat and uninspired, especially with their phones dinging news alerts every hour, reminding them that eventually, they’ll have to leave the JYP Building and return to a world where all their future plans hinge on whether or not the nation goes to war.

 

“It’s not that—” Jae announces one rainy evening as they’re packing up to leave. “I mean. I respect our music, you know? All our other songs are still about  _ real  _ things. It’s just—”

 

“They’re going to feel fake if we’re ignoring what’s happening right now,” Sungjin says. “I get it.”

 

“Or not even fake, I guess,” Jae continues as he snaps the clasps on his guitar case. “Just—irrelevant.”

 

“Insufficient,” Brian offers. He leans back against the wall, arms folded over his chest, glaring at the ceiling. He’s had writer’s block for days, his only decent lyrics coming in the form of laments and sweeping critiques. It’s a new dimension to Brian, considering this is the guy who maintained his favorite movie was  _ Boss Baby _ for at least a year. But military duty clearly changed him. Jae catches his eye, waiting a moment to see if he can read anything in Brian’s expression, and then looks away when he can’t.

 

Wonpil steps up on Jae’s other side, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants. “So are we an idol band, or just a band?” He rubs one palm over his buzzed hair, giving Jae a wry smile.

 

“Can we be both?” Dowoon asks.

 

“I think if we write a piercing social commentary that potentially jeopardizes our ability to make money,” Jae says with a sarcastic wink, “We’re kind of saying goodbye to the idol band thing.”

 

“Watch it,” Brian says, nodding toward the door. Jae looks over and sees one of their managers, a new one, hovering just outside, looking at his phone. 

 

Jae tries not to give too much attention to the flush of irritation that courses over his body—thirty-one years old and he’s being  _ managed _ . Supervised. He doesn’t want to be frustrated, since he owes his band and his career to this company, but he is nevertheless. Lately he finds himself missing Los Angeles and the freedom anonymity granted him. When he was there, he just wanted to get back. Now that he’s here, he just wants to get out. 

 

“Maybe it’s getting to be that time, anyway,” Sungjin says, his eyebrow lifting slightly as he catches Jae’s gaze. “Time to say goodbye to the idol band thing.”

 

“The idol band thing is what made us a band,” Brian says in response. They stare at each other for a long moment, then silently return to packing up their things.

 

Wonpil gives Jae a look, like he’s trying to say something without actually saying it. But even Jae can see how Sungjin bristles as he takes another look at the manager, then shoulders his guitar and tells them all goodbye for the night. He’s different after military duty as well, more self-contained, like a tightly coiled spring is being pressed down inside him. Jae doesn't know how to act around this Sungjin.

 

Jae and Dowoon are the last ones out the door. They step out of the building and into the street, where the lamp lights glow in the chilly winter fog. Dowoon leans forward to get a look at Jae’s face, his mouth twisted up with concern.

 

“Hyung?” he says.

 

Jae turns to him. “What do you think, Dowoon? About these songs we’re writing.”

 

Dowoon holds his gaze for a moment, then shifts to look out at the street. Jae waits, watching the mist catch on his glasses and Dowoon’s breath fog in the cold air. Sometimes Dowoon takes him by surprise and pulls a deep, nuanced insight out of nowhere. Jae kind of hopes Dowoon might do that, now, because he feels unmoored, thinking about all these half-written songs that are really just a desperate attempt for an idol band to say what they think, for once in their lives.

 

“I don’t know much about making statements,” Dowoon says. “I got into this band because my professor gave me a flyer. I stayed in this band because it was way better than going back to university. Then I did military duty.”

 

He looks back at Jae again, his lips pursed as he puzzles out his thoughts.

 

“I guess I never really questioned anything in my life,” he says. “It all just seemed kind of—guaranteed. But—” He shrugs. “Maybe it’s not guaranteed.”

 

Jae doesn’t really know what to say, standing there shivering while listening to Dowoon, of all people, contemplate the inherent instability of living life on this planet. He really has come back to a different Seoul, and a different band, than he left. And it feels like the songs they aren’t supposed to be writing offer the only sense of purpose he can find in the midst of all of this.

 

“Yeah,” Jae agrees. “Maybe it’s not.”

  
  
  
  


 

“I think you’re missing the point,” Lim says, stealing the last bit of beef out of the bowl on the table between them. “I mean—besides them both talking a lot, which they do, she likes Sungjin because he’s  _ safe _ . She doesn’t have to wonder what he’s going to do. Which is a big deal, for a girl group member.”

 

“Are you saying  _ I’m _ safe?” Jae asks, mocking hurt.

 

Lim rolls her eyes and grins at him, chewing happily on the stolen bit of beef. “Oh, no. You’re definitely the most dangerous dude in Kpop.”

 

“See, I knew it,” Jae says. He grabs for the bill and stands up, stretching his arms above his head. “Can’t tame Jae.”

 

Lim snorts and stands up, shrugging on her coat as they walk toward the register. “Back to your story though—I have a question. Why can’t  _ you _ get in on Jaebum and Jinyoung’s investment plans and take  _ us _ on a vacation to a private island off the coast of Italy?”

 

“Me? Out of the two of us, you’re the one who actually finished university. Why can’t you do it?” He hands over his card and turns to look at Lim while the server rings up the bill. “Isn’t the whole point of feminism that we both have equal right to be peer-pressured into our obnoxious coworkers’ investment opportunities?”

 

Lim laughs, trying not to smile while she shakes her head. “Here, what if we both ignore them, don’t invest, and go on a cheaper vacation to Italy where we just don’t get our own personal wait staff?”

 

“I knew I liked you for a reason.” Jae thanks the server and reaches for Lim’s hand as they step out into the night. The restaurant is tucked onto a side street in Itaewon, less frequented by people who might recognize two semi-famous Kpop has-beens walking hand-in-hand along the sidewalk. They amble quietly for a moment, listening to laughter and music spill out of the restaurants in front of them.

 

“Actually,” Lim says, “ I could really use a vacation.”

 

The way she says it gives him pause. There are many things to readjust to after being in and out of the country over the course of the last year, but he didn’t expect these moments with Lim. It’s the second or third time since he got back that he’s noticed it—she’ll make a seemingly innocuous comment, but his intuition tells him the comment is like the tip of an iceberg rising above a mammoth number of worries hidden below the surface. He’s not sure yet whether she’s changed, or if his absence for months at a time lies at the root of the problem. Now he’s here, indefinitely, and maybe she doesn’t know how to feel about that. It’s the most serious relationship Jae has ever had, but they’ve never really tackled the discussion of where they’re headed, as a couple.

 

Jae clears his throat. “Yeah?” he asks, concerned. “Any changes at work?”

 

Her grip tightens around his hand, but she doesn’t look at him. With her free hand she tucks her hair behind her ear and shrugs. “Well—you know they’ve been asking me to help out in different departments.”

 

“Yeah, because you’re freaking amazing at what you do.” He grins and steps a pace in front of her, waiting until she looks up at him, flushing a little across her cheeks. Besides freelance translation, Lim was hired at a television station to work for a few entertainment shows, both as on-screen talent and as a writer. In the last few months, she’d started contributing other shows—commentary shows and the occasional news piece, usually behind-the-scenes.

 

“Yeah, I am pretty good,” she jokes, rolling her eyes, but obviously pleased by the compliment.

 

“Atta girl.”

 

She shoves at his arm, then pulls him back as he dramatically stumbles over, and keeps her hand hooked around his arm. He waits for a moment for her to continue speaking, watching the smile on her face fade back into unease. When she doesn’t say anything, he just keeps waiting. 

 

The thing about Lim that he knows and appreciates, but doesn’t always understand, is her perfectionism. As far as ambition, they’re more or less the same. Kids with big dreams going back to the motherland for a shot at fame. Kids growing up into adults a little bit jaded, maybe, but able to adjust course and keep living happily with the cards life dealt them. Except Lim is cautious in a way Jae has never been, measuring her life choices according to what she can feasibly excel at, because as she told him once,  _ I’ve been the disappointing replacement before, and I’d rather not do it again. _

 

“Sorry,” Lim says. “I’m—lost in my thoughts. I’m really happy that they want me taking on more responsibility, but. . . I feel like I have to watch what I say all the time. Criticizing President Won is like saying you support corruption in business.” She glances up at him. “I know everything going on at the border is really sensitive, but it seems like the only people with misgivings about President Won are the people about go into military duty, or the ones who just got out.”

 

“They’re the ones who would be most affected.”

 

“Yeah—and they’re mostly young. Some of them are really young.” She shakes her head and sighs. “I don’t know—people have their own point of view. I’m glad something is being done to hold companies to the law, obviously. I just never expected that so many people would be okay with how he’s handling this.”

 

“Maybe the ones who aren’t okay with it just aren’t saying anything.”

 

“Yeah. I guess that’s what I’m doing.”

 

They lapse into silence again. They’ve almost arrived back to where they parked the car, and Jae figures this is his best opportunity to tell Lim about the whole write-a-protest-song idea. He’s been putting it off for some reason he can’t really articulate—he’s pretty sure she won’t be in favor of the idea, but not entirely sure why. Still. He can’t not tell her.

 

He clears his throat. “So—I haven’t really told you what we’re doing yet. ‘We’ as in, my band.”

 

“You’re working on your next album?”

 

He slows, pulling the car keys out of his pocket and fiddling with them. “Sort of.”

 

She stops walking, moving to face him, one eyebrow lifting in uncertainty. 

 

“It’s just—” Jae pulls his hand away from hers so he can gesticulate properly. “I can’t keep writing the same songs. I can’t keep singing about falling in love and breaking up when all this is happening. How can I call myself an artist if I don’t call it like I see it?”

 

She blinks. “So, what? You’re recording a protest album?”

 

The way she says it makes it sound like she thinks he’s the last person who would ever “stick it to the Man.” He gets that. Rebellion sits awkwardly on his shoulders, but it doesn’t mean he’s not going to go through with it.

 

“Maybe,” he says.

 

Her eyes go wide, but otherwise, she doesn’t really react. He didn’t realize how much he’d want her approval until he watches her eyes dart away, scanning the apartments on the other side of the street.

 

She looks at him again, her brow knitting together. “Jae—the company will never release that.” 

 

“So?” He laughs, helpless. “Maybe we put it online. I don’t know. What’s the point of making music if I don’t say what’s on my heart to say?”

 

His words hang in the air between them. He thinks back to the kid with a YouTube channel, strumming his heart out on the guitar, hoping someone might care to listen. He wants to explain it in a way that makes sense—he owes it to that kid, his young and naive self, to make music that means something. No matter the consequences.

 

Lim chews at her bottom lip and sighs. “Don’t start arguing with me until you’ve heard me out, okay?”

 

He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Okay.”

 

“This might not go the way you want it to,” she says very carefully. “You’re in an idol band, like it or not.”

 

Jae almost wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. “Yeah? So what? Why can’t an idol band do this?”

 

“I’m not saying you can’t. I’m just saying—it worries me. That’s all I’m saying.”

 

There’s fear in her eyes. He knows, after nearly two years of dating and however many more of friendship, that she doesn’t want to see him get hurt. Unfortunately, knowing that doesn’t lessen his frustration.

 

“I get it,” he says. “I know, it might not turn out great. But—I’ve got to follow my heart on this.”

 

She winces. “Jae—”

 

“You get it though, right?”

 

“Follow your heart.” She kicks a bit of gravel on the sidewalk, then looks up at him. “You know who said that to me before?”

 

Jae shakes his head. “Who?”

 

From the look in her eyes, he can already tell he’s failed to persuade her. “Sunye.”

 

She closes her eyes, her thoughts obviously in the distant past, when her group was still together and a lot of futures were possible. Opens her eyes again.   
  


“And don’t get me wrong,” Lim continues, “She’d take her husband and kids over popularity every time, but it was still really, really hard. The public is cruel. Everyone in the company had different opinions. And all she did was get married at the wrong time.”

 

“This isn’t the same as an idol getting married—”

 

“That’s not the point, Jae!” Her eyes are luminous as she stares up at him. “Listen—people might not like your message. Or they might not want to hear it just because you’re in an idol band. Are you prepared for that?”

 

He rakes his hands through his hair. “It’s better than ignoring what’s happening!”

 

She sighs and then just nods, swaying back and forth on her heels.

 

“Yeah, maybe. All I’m saying is, don’t expect the public to be on your side.” She closes the gap between them slides her arm through his, drawing him back to look at her. 

 

“Jae,” she says, pressing closer to him, as if to give him comfort. “We’re entertainers, not prophets.”

  
  
  
  
  


Another week passes. The band spends half their time at the company building, and the other half at Wonpil and Jinyoung’s fancy-ass house in Hannam, taking advantage of the private space to freely exchange their ideas. Slowly, a few songs take shape: an ode to the country they call home. A lament about the potential for war. A ballad about a musician forced to become a soldier. A sharp critique of life in Seoul, from the eyes of a young person. And as for Jae himself, he keeps trying to write something that speaks to his identity—Argentinian, American, Korean, all of the above, none of the above—but the words all get jumbled up on the page.

 

When they’re not writing music, they’re listening to it. They revisit old inspirations, like Nell and Mayday and OneRepublic and Coldplay. Jae procures the English-language sampling, and they spend countless hours listening to anything that seems somehow relevant—The Sex Pistols, The Clash, Pink Floyd, U2, N.W.A., Bob Dylan, Green Day, Public Enemy, Wu Tang Clan. F or a couple days, Jae has the  _ Hamilton _ soundtrack on repeat, with the result that Wonpil and Dowoon take to yelling “What's your name, man?” during any significant lull in conversation.

 

But Jae really finds his resolve when Sungjin brings in some old records one evening and they all sit on plush couches in Wonpil’s living room, listening to them crackle to life. The records date back to the period of martial law in South Korea, when songs carried protestors into their demonstrations on the swell of their melodies. Jae has to take off his glasses and rub his eyes during the last one.  _ I hear the sound of my friend’s voice coming from far away. Will the wheels of a running train ever answer it? _ He pictures each one of the others doing their military duty—musicians with guns in their arms instead of instruments.

 

The record scratches to a stop. They sit in silence for a long minute in the aftershocks of their own reactions. Jae thinks about what Lim said, about them being an idol band that people won’t want to listen to. He thinks about what Sungjin said, that maybe it’s time to kiss their idol band life goodbye. They’d be stepping into unknown territory, but Jae can’t keep these songs trapped inside of himself. They’ve got to do this. They’ve got to speak up, because they’re artists. Because enough people are already listening to them for it to mean something. Or else Kpop really is as frivolous as they’ve been accused of all these years.

 

“Wonpil,” Sungjin says into the quiet. “You’ve got your little recording studio here, right? We should just record the songs here. I don’t think I can seriously work on anything else until I get these songs out.”

 

Jae looks up and finds Sungjin with his jaw set in a hard line. He thinks back over the years to all the moments when Sungjin’s fun-loving attitude disappeared and was replaced by a rigid determination the rest of them couldn’t match. He wears that face now, shadowed by his experiences during military duty. He looks up at Jae and nods, and it occurs to Jae that maybe he’s given the rest of his band members a sense of purpose, as well.

 

“Okay,” Brian says carefully. “I want to do this. But we’ve got to think it through.” He looks at Sungjin, then at Jae as he speaks. “We’ve got to think through what the consequences might be if we actually release this music.”

 

None of them says anything, though Jae can see how the mood shifts. Jae clears his throat. “Worst-case scenario? We get dropped from our contract.”

 

“For the content?” Wonpil muses.

 

“Probably for releasing music without their agreement,” Brian says. “Like it or not, they still own first rights to distributing what we produce as a band. And we do owe our band to the company. We wouldn’t exist without them.”

 

They sit for a moment, sobered by this reminder. Jae pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “I can’t imagine the public would react too badly though, you know? I think most people probably won’t even notice.”

 

“Our fan base is probably smaller than it used to be,” Brian agrees. “But we’ve still got a lot of people waiting to see what we’re going to do next. I wouldn’t expect silence. I’d expect people to listen to it—that’s why I’m saying we’ve got to think about the consequences.”

 

“So, we present it to management,” Wonpil says. “They might go for it. You never know.”

 

“Not without editing the lyrics,” Sungjin says. “Did you see what Brian wrote today?”

 

Wonpil nods, giving Brian a smile. “I did. They wouldn’t edit genius like that.”

 

“They  _ would _ edit that kind of specific and scathing critique,” Jae interjects. “The issue is, the company is in the business of making money. These songs are going to be about sending a message.”

 

“So we circumvent the company and deal with the consequences.” Sungjin looks around the circle.

 

No one says anything, though Jae can feel his heart beating, a steady thumping rhythm in time with his nerves. He wants his band members to agree so badly he has to bite his tongue. If his stint in Los Angeles taught him anything, it’s that he’s better with them than he is alone.

 

“Let’s finish the songs,” Wonpil says quietly. “Then we decide.”

 

Everyone nods their agreement. The possibility hovers in the air between them, like the sound of the record scratching across undefined territory.

  
  
  
  


 

The following night he and Lim take the subway to a bar in Hongdae. As the train rumbles onto a bridge over the Han River, he watches Seoul spread out around them. Sometimes he thinks about how easy it would be for all of this to get swept away—an earthquake, perhaps. Or a bombing. One second you’re standing in one of the greatest cities in the world, and the next you’re in black-and-white on  _ The New York Times _ website, another photo for people to scroll past while they buy their morning coffee.

 

“Jae,” Lim says, nudging him with her elbow. “You okay?”

 

He blinks, lost in his thoughts, and the train passes into an underground tunnel again. “I’m fine,” he says.

 

He’s pretty sure she can tell he’s lying, but she just slips an arm around him, moving close enough for him to breathe in the floral scent of her perfume. He resolves to stop thinking like this, at least for the evening.

 

Easier said than done, though, seeing as they’re meeting two of his band members. He spots Wonpil outside the door to the bar with Jinyoung next to him, both of them in long, obviously expensive coats. When they get close enough, he can hear Wonpil humming one of their unfinished new songs under his breath.

 

They barely have time to exchange greetings before Brian crosses the road, waving to them with one hand. Attached to his other hand is a very pretty woman with long black hair. Jae clocks her as a foreigner before she’s even finished crossing the street based on nothing but fashion and the way she carries herself.

 

“Hey guys,” Brian says breathlessly in English, as they complete the circle. “This is Annie.”

 

She gives an awkward wave, and Brian looks at her like he’s witnessing a miracle. Jae glances at Lim, who gives him an amused half-smile. Jinyoung gives a little cough.

 

Wonpil, as expected, saves the day. “Hel- _ lo _ !” he croons, throwing his arms around Annie in a hug. She reels a little, but laughs, and Brian just stares at Wonpil in confusion.

 

“I thought that’s what you all do,” Wonpil says in Korean to Jae as they all turn to go into the bar. “I’m trying to make her more comfortable.”

 

“You can’t base your ideas of foreigners off of Jae,” Jinyoung says. In an earlier era, Jae would have been a little hurt, but now he just swipes at the back of Jinyoung’s head instead, earning a movie star grin in return.

 

They settle into a three-sided booth. On the opposite end of the bar is a stage, where a young woman sits on a stool, strumming a guitar and singing her heart out. She doesn’t look more than twenty-two, twenty-three tops. It takes Jae a moment to realize the song she’s singing is actually a Nell cover.  _ This song is for you _ , she repeats over and over again, while the rest of the song accuses the powerful of hypocrisy and other crimes. It’s not a light song, but the way she sings it draws the whole room to listen.

 

“She’s good,” Wonpil says after they finish ordering drinks. Jae nods his agreement, fixated on the lyrics.  _ Strike three, and you’re out.  _ He shakes himself, forcing his brain to attend to the people in front of him.

 

“So what do you do, Annie?” Lim asks in English.

 

Both Annie and Brian light up in response to her being asked a question. “I work for a travel agency,” Annie says, while Brian gazes at her. “I split my time doing marketing for our English and Chinese language departments.”

 

“Oh, do you speak Mandarin?” Lim asks. Annie nods, and they both immediately switch to speaking that, leaving the rest of the table clueless.

 

“Darn,” Jinyoung says. “I wanted to start an in-laws club. Support group, specifically.”

 

“What do you need a support group for?” Brian asks.

 

“You guys. You give me a headache. You’re worse than my sisters’ husbands, and they’re actually in my family. I don’t know why I’m stuck with you.” He glances over at Wonpil with an exaggerated grimace. Wonpil just laughs and gives a shrug of his shoulders.

 

“You love us,” Jae tells Jinyoung.

 

“No, I love him,” Jinyoung says, patting Wonpil’s hand. “The rest of you are an unfortunate package deal. Where’s the rest of the fam, anyway?”

 

“Dowoon was meeting some high school friends,” Brian says, pausing to thank the server when she returns with their drinks. “And Sungjin wouldn’t tell us his plans, so draw your own conclusions.” He gives Jae a look.

 

Jinyoung’s brow furrows. “Nayeon?” he asks, looking to Wonpil for confirmation. After Wonpil nods, Jinyoung waves a finger in the air. “No, she needs to be following the Girls’ Generation playbook and dating an actor, if she’s got to date right now.”

 

Before any of the rest of them can say anything, Lim shifts in the seat next to Jae, leaning around him to look at Jinyoung. “I’m sorry—” she says in English to Annie, then flips to Korean to address Jinyoung. “Why do you all keep treating this like a joke? Can’t you let her enjoy herself when she can and with the person she wants?”

 

Jae feels his ears burn a little at the accusation. Sungjin and Nayeon’s relationship had always been a bit of a joke, not as anything against them, but because it was sort of like an embarrassing rash that flared up every once in a while. It’s hard to take either one of them seriously.   


 

“It’s not that,” Jinyoung says, suddenly serious. “Can you imagine if this got out? She’s at the stage of her career now where the company just isn’t going to shell out to keep dating news quiet.”

 

“Who says it’s going to get out?” Lim asks. 

 

“But say it does,” Jinyoung shoots back. “Then what? They just say they’re really dating, they break up after a couple months, and they have to have the relationship on their Wikipedia page for the rest of their careers.”

 

“So everyone has to, what, decide if they’re okay with their relationship going public,” Lim says, obviously agitated, “in order to enjoy that relationship at all?”   


 

“Don’t you think I’ve been asking that question for the past six years?” Jinyoung demands.

 

They all fall silent. Wonpil stares at the glass in his hand. Jae isn’t totally sure what the discussions Wonpil and Jinyoung must have had over the years sounded like, but he does know that they’ve had them. The public might be more accepting of gay couples than they would have been even ten years ago, but Jinyoung’s acting career rests heavily on his success as a lead actor in two romantic dramas. Until he diversifies his potential acting roles, they’ve chosen to keep the truth quiet.

 

Jae can tell that Lim is uncomfortable, too, having stumbled into a much weightier conversation than she realized. He clears his throat.   


 

“We do have to consider our situation,” he says carefully, looking between them. “But no one wants to become like Super Junior. How’d you describe them, Lim? Self-sabotaging their best chances at healthy romantic relationships while becoming increasingly co-dependent on their band members?”

 

Everyone laughs a little and the tension dissipates. From what he’s heard—everyone in the industry likes to gossip—his joke isn’t far off from the truth. Years of faked celibacy (and exaggerated affection between band members) tends to make people a little odd, when they try to do relationships for real.

 

Lim taps her nails against her glass. “I’m not trying to argue, Jinyoung.” She gives him a small smile. “I know you care about Nayeon. I just—I know what it feels like to be paranoid constantly about public perception. I can’t fix myself, but I don’t wish it on anyone else.”

 

Jinyoung nods, glancing between them and then over to Wonpil. “We’re all in the same boat, nuna,” he says.

 

Their food arrives while Brian quickly translates the sum of the conversation to Annie. From the look on her face, Annie isn’t interested in contributing anything—not that Jae can blame her. He pats Lim’s knee under the table, the best comfort he has to offer at the moment. She puts her hand over his, interlacing their fingers and holding on tight.

 

“So, Annie,” Wonpil says in hesitant English. “Do you—speak Korean?”

 

“A little,” she says, in equally hesitant Korean. Then she glances at Brian, blushes, and switches back to English. “I’m trying to learn. This guy isn’t helping.”

 

“What do you mean, I’m not helping?” Brian laughs.

 

They start having a playful argument, while the rest of them look on, amused and a little bit grossed out. But before Jae can put a stop on the too-cutesy moment, Lim puts her hand on his arm. “Are you listening to this?” she whispers, and nods toward the stage.

 

Jae tunes back in to the performance. The woman is singing an original song, now. Within seconds, Jae knows why Lim wanted him to pay attention. It’s the same kind of anti-war statement he’s trying to write, but even more raw, more heartfelt. The narrative lyrics weave together the story of her grandparents with her fears for the future, a desperate plea not to repeat the violence of the past.

 

The song finishes and the woman stands up from her stool. “This isn’t a partisan issue,” she says into the microphone. Her soft voice sweeps over the room in waves. “This is bigger than politics. This is a question of what we’re willing to accept, and what we’re going to hold our leaders accountable to. If you agree with me, we’re holding a demonstration tomorrow. I hope you’ll come hold vigil with us—thank you.”

 

A smattering of applause echoes throughout the room, and then silence. Jae looks around the table. All of the others sit frozen in the moment, unsure of what to do next. He catches Wonpil’s eye, and Wonpil looks back at him, lifting his eyebrow in a question. Jae shrugs in response, but inside, he already knows they need to see this for themselves.

  
  
  
  
  


In the end, their band members all have prior commitments and only Wonpil and Jae make their way to the protest the next day, arriving to the school under a washed-out sky just as the street lamps are beginning to come on. In the gray light, the protest doesn’t look so much like the gathered power of the people as it does the middle school courtyard where Jae always had to wait for his mother to come pick him up, and by the time she arrived each day, most of the kids had already gone, leaving himself and a few clumps of other nerds half-asleep with boredom. A few hundred people stand around this courtyard, at least, but the spirit of a protest is absent. Jae spots the musician from the bar standing on a platform in the distance opposite them, strumming her guitar and singing into a microphone while a few people look on.

 

“This isn’t what I expected,” Wonpil says. He looks disappointed.

 

“I know,” Jae says. He expected something inspiring. Something to justify the fear and anger he pours into his guitar each day, an affirmation of the cause. Something to give him courage. But these people, mostly students, just look tired. He doesn’t want to be angry at the people scattered around him, but the future of the nation is balanced precariously over a precipice, and if this is the most emotion anyone can muster, why shouldn’t President Won follow his own judgment over the will of the people?

 

“I didn’t want to go into active duty,” Wonpil says suddenly.

 

Jae stops moving and looks over at him. Wonpil hasn’t really volunteered much information about his military duty experience, and Jae kind of assumed that meant there wasn’t much to say. Turns out that assuming really does make an Ass out of U and Me.

 

“I wanted to go into that performance unit,” Wonpil continues. “You know, the one all the other idols went into. But by the time I finished training, they said there weren’t any spots. Turned out the military was already getting worried about enlistment for the future.” He tilts a smile in Jae’s direction. “Can you imagine me, in a war?”

 

Jae can only smile. He can’t really bring himself to imagine that—the war movie he plays in his head turns into a comedy the moment he casts Wonpil as the star. Reality wouldn’t be a comedy, though. At all. 

 

“Not any more than I can imagine myself.”

 

Wonpil sucks in his lips and shakes his head. “There was this kid who slept in the bunk next to me. Failed out of college. Really depressed about it. I keep imagining him in a trench or whatever—it seems so unfair, you know? But that’s how it would be. A bunch of people fighting who have no business doing it.”

 

He’s right, and it makes Jae angry, too angry to speak. He puts his hand on Wonpil’s shoulder. They stand there for a moment, looking at the sorry excuse for a protest. 

 

A couple of students step up to the other microphones on the platform. One of them, a wiry young man in glasses, starts rapping into the mic. He’s good—good enough to invigorate the crowd. Jae watches as people turn their heads, noticing him, then stand up, gathering closer to the performance. Soon the crowd around the platform grows thick, and people begin yelling and stomping their feet in rhythm.

 

“We don’t want a war!” the musician shouts in between the rapper’s bars. “We don’t want a war! President Won should make a path to peace and resolution! We don’t want a war!”

 

Jae and Wonpil move closer, drawn by the magnetic power rippling through the crowd. Jae finds himself looking at people’s faces as he slips past them. They all wear different expressions—some enraptured, some angry, some crying, some ecstatic. Every person has a different story written across their face. As the guitar’s notes reverberate through the speakers, Jae feels something stirring deep within him, like another gear clicking into its correct place.

 

Music can’t change the world. But it can make people  _ feel _ something. If he can say something, but doesn’t, he  _ is _ irresponsible. How can he call himself an artist if he doesn’t inspire emotion toward the things that matter to him? If he doesn’t tell the truth?

 

He looks over at Wonpil and finds Wonpil looking back at him, a crease in his brow. He nods. “We’ve got to convince the guys to do this. If we don’t—”

 

He stops speaking and focuses on a spot behind Jae’s head. A few people cry out in surprise, like a wind whooshing into the courtyard. Jae whips his head around, and spots the police before the enter the crowd. 

 

The police force their way through to the stage, slipping quiet as snakes through the crowd that just goes on chanting and cheering. It takes a few minutes for the police to get the attention of the performers. The rapper stops, and kneels down to hear what the police have to say. Then he shoots back up to his feet.

 

“We have the right to peaceful assembly—” the musician yells into the microphone, off-beat. 

 

The police start yelling at her. The atmosphere of the whole crowd changes, as if clouds have rolled in across a blue sky. People start rushing away from the courtyard. Others move in closer to the stage. Jae feels frozen to his spot, unable to look away from the conflict unfolding before his eyes.

 

The musician refuses to get off the stage, and one of the police officers jumps onto the stage, grabbing her by the wrists, and pulls her down off to the side. Another one grabs the rapper, handcuffing him in full view of the crowd. 

 

The next thing Jae sees is the top of the musician’s head as she’s pushed through the crowd and out of the courtyard, then the rapper next. Jae looks over and sees that Wonpil has his phone out, recording the whole thing. 

 

The crowd is silent. Slowly, they disperse, leaving Jae and Wonpil standing in the twilight, looking at the empty stage.

  
  
  
  
  


The next day, the top news item reads  _ Pro-North Korean Activists Disrupt Campus Activities. _

 

“That’s not what happened!” Wonpil cries, showing his phone to the others in their practice room at the company building. The pictures in the article show the musician shouting and in handcuffs. Statements from other students call her a communist sympathizer. Professors call her angry and disturbed. A quote from the police claims she organized the protest after being denied permission by the school due to her suspected political agenda.

 

Anger pounds heavy in Jae’s chest.

 

“This isn’t right,” he tells the others, watching the musician’s face on the screen. “How can they blatantly lie like that?”

 

“Welcome to the real world,” Brian says bitterly, his gaze also fixed onto Wonpil’s phone. In the background their playlist has flipped to the next song, and Bono cries out,  _ And it's true we are immune when fact is fiction and TV reality. And today the millions cry; we eat and drink while tomorrow they die. _

 

Dowoon taps his fingers fast against the bottom of his chair, agitated. Sungjin stops watching the video and starts pacing the room instead. The video finishes, leaving nothing but the echo of  _ How long? How long must we sing this song? _ to pierce their thoughts.

 

Maybe she really was a North Korean sympathist. Jae doesn’t know—how the hell is he supposed to vet every person he comes across? The musician could be screwed up and the protest could still be justified—this is the issue that sits heavy on his chest. No one is pure, at least not anyone he’s met. He feels all the more troubled as he picks up his own phone and scrolls past headline after headline, even a few in English, with only one version of the story. All he knows is, he doesn’t see a reason for a war unless all the pathways to peace have been exhausted. And they haven’t.

 

“We have to put out the songs,” Wonpil says into the silence.

 

Because it’s Wonpil who said it, something shifts in the room. Jae looks at the faces of his band members, one by one. A new, steely sense of purpose settles over the room. He looks at Brian, knowing that Brian is the one most unsure.

 

But Brian’s whole demeanor has changed. “Let’s go,” he says.

 

A beat. And then they rush into motion, quickly packing up their instruments.

 

They leave the company building and make their way to Wonpil’s house, where they finish their songs in a frenzied state. Brian frantically revises lyrics while Sungjin and Wonpil try to sort out all the musical problems they haven’t been able to fix, and Dowoon lays out the percussion for each song. Jae locks himself in a (ridiculously lavish) bathroom for an hour (seriously, maybe he should take Jinyoung up on the investment opportunities) until he finally emerges with a completed version of the song that’s been gripping his mind the past few weeks.

 

In total, they have five songs. They play them all through, one after the other, and when they’re done, Jae looks around.

 

“Are we done?” he asks. “Are we ready for this?”

 

The others all nod.

 

“No way out but forward,” Dowoon says, twirling a drumstick in his hand.

 

They spend the next hours in the tiny basement recording studio hammering out a decent version of all of the songs, and finish recording when dawn is a thin line on the horizon. Then they trudge back up to the living room and fall into the plush couches while Brian hits play on the tracks so they can listen to them one more time. 

 

Jae closes his eyes and lets the music wash over him. He can’t believe they’re really going to do this, but he feels like his whole career is turning on the fulcrum of this one moment. Who knows what comes after this?

  
  
  
  
  


They decide to record a video for each of the songs (after they sleep for a solid day, minimum). The videos will just feature them playing their instruments in an unused parking garage that Wonpil and Jinyoung own for some reason—even Wonpil isn’t sure, but it’s awfully convenient. But Dowoon points out that Jae’s long hair will look odd, marking him as the one who didn’t do military duty. And even though that’s the truth, aesthetic rules out over everything else. They are, after all, Kpop stars.

 

Which is how Jae finds himself sitting on a folding chair in Lim’s bathroom that night, letting her comb hair dye through his hair. “You really should have gone to a salon for this,” she says. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

 

“I’m not going to pay a salon to dye the hair I’m about to buzz off,” Jae says. “But I don’t want blonde buzzed hair, either.”

 

“I’m just saying, don’t complain if it looks terrible.” She stops with her hands still in his hair. “Why is this song on your playlist?”

 

He listens for the song coming in from the next room as she moves to stand in front of him, surveying her own work. He grins up at her. “Because I love it? It’s meaningful.”

 

She wrinkles up her nose. “Are you trying to flatter me?”

 

“ _ What you see is just the half of me, _ ” he raps along with her voice coming through the speakers, and pulls on her waist. He feels so much less turmoil churning inside him now that the songs are done and a plan is set in place. Somehow the world feels brighter, and he just wants to take half a second and pretend that life is just going smooth sailing from here on out. 

 

Lim holds up her gloved hands, trying not to get hair dye on anything, and laughs at him. Then follows his lead, falling forward into a kiss. He takes his time, trying to close whatever gap has come between them since he came back to Korea. 

 

He leans back and looks at her. “Are you okay with all this?” he asks. “I know we’re taking a big risk, releasing these songs.”

 

She sighs, leaning into him, her elbows still resting on his shoulders. He tries to remain calm in the silence, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing, pressing his hands into the warmth of her body. A long time ago, back when she was still in the Wonder Girls, he remembers how she used to stand outside his practice room and watch him play guitar, playing the part of a cool sunbae. It took weeks before she came inside the room and asked,  _ “Can you help me practice?” _ Even then, her words left him elated for days.

 

He’s just waiting, now, hoping he still has her approval. He can see in her eyes that he doesn’t quite—but damn, he’s really hoping she’ll change her mind.

 

“I don’t know,” she says. His stomach drops, and he hopes it doesn’t show in his face. She shakes her head. “I want you to do what you think is right but—it scares me.”

 

He moves his hands to cup her face, searching her eyes for the words she’s not saying. “Can you be okay with that?”

 

She hesitates, then nods. “I can try.”

 

It’s enough. Enough for now, at least, until she sees the good that comes of these songs.

 

He starts to kiss her again, but she taps him against his head. “Jae, your  _ hair _ .”

 

“Oh, right.”

  
  
  
  


 

Later, he hands Lim the clippers he borrowed from one of the company stylists and sits back down in the folding chair to watch while she buzzes off his hair. It comes off in long clumps, falling onto his shoulders and down to the floor. He feels like a shoestring has been laced through his ribcage, and now invisible hands are pulling it tighter and tighter until his chest is too tight to expand. His band, and so many of his friends, have already done this. Sacrificed two years of their life to the country. And he’s doing it for a music video.

 

“Done,” Lim says, stepping back to survey her work. “What do you think?”

 

But Jae is looking at himself in the mirror, and to be honest, he can’t fucking breathe.

  
  
  
  
  


The next day he arrives at the parking garage with freshly buzzed hair hidden under a ski cap, which Dowoon immediately swipes off his head. Everyone reaches up to rub his hair, “for good luck.” Jae doesn’t tell them how much like a liar he feels, pushing the thought out of his mind and focusing on what they came here to do.

 

They set up the camera and microphones and arrange themselves in the frame. As Dowoon counts them in for the first song, Jae feels a chill rush over him, from his head and down his spine.

 

This is their new beginning.

  
  
  
  
  


_ 002 soundtrack _

 

[ alexander hamilton ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VhinPd5RRJw&feature=youtu.be) |  [ friend ](https://youtu.be/04jpK6foD90) |  [ boy-x ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FB6hDewrENE) |  [ sunday bloody sunday ](https://youtu.be/D3bhT7Ke87g) |  [ iron girl ](https://youtu.be/_XFJD5v7Zxg)


	3. track 003 - on the front lines

track 003 - on the front lines

* * *

 

 

In total, Day6 uploads five videos onto a brand-new YouTube channel. They aren’t really looking for a wide audience—just a chance to say something into the chaos of news items and frantic posts on their social media feeds. That same day, a North Korean ship comes close enough to a South Korean ship for President Won to make the statement,  _ Whatever happens, I will respond firmly. We will not tolerate a bully _ . This occupies the national conversation for the next few days, and Jae spends half his time reading articles, and the other half refreshing the views page on the new YouTube channel. If anyone realizes Day6 just put out secret new music, they aren’t talking about it.

 

“But someone is watching them,” Lim says when he tells her this. 

 

It’s early morning, before sunrise, and they’re on the road back to Incheon airport so he can drop her off for a week-long work trip to the US and Canada. He glances over at her and sees her holding up her phone. “The third one has five thousand views. That’s not nothing.”

 

“It’s not much, though.” Jae says, tilting a smile in her direction. “But it’s probably for the best. We’re not a controversial band. This is Kpop, after all.”

 

“Yeah,” Lim muses. She’s quiet, listening to the song creaking out of her phone’s speaker. “But this song is amazing. Really—this is some of your best work.”

 

It’s the first truly complimentary thing she’s said about the songs, and he can’t deny that it gives him the emotional equivalent of being handed a little balloon. He takes another glance at her, though, and sees she’s frowning.

 

“Does it still make you nervous?” he asks. “That we’ve gone through with this.”

 

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. He looks over at her and finds her pensive, her lips pressed together, the pale blue of dawn casting a thin glow across her face.

 

“I want to support you,” she finally answers. It’s really not an answer, though.

 

“But?” he pushes.

 

She sighs. “We still don’t know what you’re risking, doing this.”

 

He taps his fingers against the steering wheel as the song finishes. The next song loads up, something in Chinese, a band he’s heard Lim play before. She’d translated this song for him once, he remembers.  _ It’s about how even a king will lose hope in society _ . Sometimes he sees shades of deep cynicism in this otherwise bright and positive woman he loves, and he wonders if he’s supposed to dive into those waters, but he can’t force her to share what she’d rather hide. Or force her to join up with his new purpose in life, become political alongside him, even if he really wishes she was with him one hundred percent on this.

 

“Well,” he says carefully, as she clicks off the phone and silence fills the car, “so far, it seems like we’re not risking much at all. No one’s noticed it.”

 

“There’s still a chance,” she answers. “Especially if there are more protests. I tried to look up the musician from the bar, by the way, but I couldn’t find anything.”

 

Jae frowns. “I sent you the link, right?”

 

“Yeah. It didn’t go anywhere.”

 

“I definitely watched it though.”

 

Lim shrugs. “Maybe you didn’t copy the whole link? But I couldn’t really find anything in a search, either. I could have had her name wrong.”

 

“Maybe,” Jae says, and hesitates. He reaches over and takes her hand. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to be upset if you can’t listen to all the protest music I send you.”

 

There’s a beat, and she sighs, and the tension between them releases.

 

“Is there going to be more?” she says, a teasing tone returning to her voice. “You’ve already sent me, like, hours and hours of music.”

 

“And did you listen to it?”

 

“I listened to the Hamilton soundtrack,” she laughs.

 

“Okay. That’s not protest music, but I’ll accept that.”

 

They drive onto a large bridge, the ocean mostly darkness around them with just pale streaks of pink on the horizon, and ship lights dotted across the water. He rubs his thumb back and forth across the smooth skin of Lim’s hand, thinking over the past few weeks and what it’s all added up to. He’s still in about the same spot he was when his plane touched down on Korean soil—unsure of his path, keenly aware of his shortcomings, fearful about what the future might hold. All that’s really changed is his hair, and he feels like he’s wearing a lie on his head.

 

“Jae?”

 

“Hmm?” He looks over at her as she turns her hand to interlace their fingers, holding tight.

 

“I’m sorry.” She starts to say more, but stops, leaning her head back against the seat. 

 

He imagines her thirteen years ago, going off to New York City with the then-biggest girl group in Korea, trying to find a place for herself. He thinks about the time he found her crying in a back room in the old company building, mascara streaked down her face and her phone on the floor next to her. If anything, her career has taught her that the public is cruel, and shouldn’t be trusted.

 

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “We don’t have to agree on everything.”

 

She’s quiet, gazing out the window instead of at him. He watches the glow of the street lamps lining the road in front of them, and the changing blue of the sky overhead. He and Lim have never actually found themselves in a situation like this, fully understanding each other’s point of view and yet still in disagreement. Last month his mother asked him,  _ “So are you getting married or not?” _ like that was going to spur him to propose at that very moment. He doesn’t know about the future, not yet. But he is pretty sure this is a test. However they resolve this will determine where they’re headed.

 

“For what it’s worth,” she says quietly, drawing his eyes over to her again, “I think you’re very brave.”

  
  
  
  
  


He drives back into Seoul as the sun rises, thinking about how Lim looked at him after she kissed him goodbye. Like she wouldn’t see him again for a long time.

 

He flips on the radio and it’s on a talk show about politics, which oddly feels like a relief. He listens as the hosts discuss the current stalemate. The president is refusing to negotiate toward peace unless several minimum agreements are made. The hosts are striking a neutral balance in their commentary, remarking on how this has been controversial even within the president’s own party.

 

Jae rolls his eyes. The president’s requirements sound excessive when war is on the table, not that Jae gets any say.  He can’t even vote in this country. He is and isn’t accepted, enmeshed in a world that he doesn’t really belong to, and every now and then something comes and reminds him that the entire life he’s built here could be washed away without warning. Existing in-between affords him some freedom others don’t get—he thinks of how Sungjin used to ask him to make particularly controversial requests to the company just so it wouldn’t be held against them—but it also feels like the world spins around him while he gets buffeted from place to place, without anything to anchor him down.

 

But it’s his home. He’s spent most of his adult life here, after all. And right now, fighting for his home means speaking up. So if the songs don’t make a difference—well, he’ll have to figure out something else. He flips off the radio and turns on his most recent protest song playlist, mouthing along with the words.  _ There has to be an invisible sun, that gives us hope when the whole day's done. _

 

He arrives at the company building just as Itzy is getting back from something, and the roads are lined with fans snapping away with their expensive cameras. He hears his own name a few times as he gets out of his car, and someone even calls to him, waving her hand in the air when he turns to look.

 

“When’s the next album?” she asks as he steps onto the sidewalk. Jae looks at the speaker and finds it’s a girl who can’t be more than nineteen. The fans just look younger and younger, it seems, while he gets older and older.

 

“It’s a secret,” Jae says with a smile, his best way of saying  _ lol we’re nowhere close to done with anything _ .

 

But the girl next to her speaks up, drawing his attention with the tone of her voice. “I saw a new YouTube channel yesterday that looked like you guys,” she says. “Is it real?”

 

Jae hesitates, glancing up at the large JYP sign above him. 

 

“Well,” he says carefully. “I’m sure it’s not official.”

 

He waves and turns to walk away. The girls begin whispering behind him, and when he turns to look, they’re huddled around one girl’s phone. He should feel some sense of satisfaction, but instead he just feels nervous as he passes through the doors to the company building, Lim’s words ringing in his ears.  _ We still don’t know what you’re risking _ .

 

He’s so deep in his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice when he gets on an elevator Bang Chan is already standing in until he hears, “Jae! What’s up, mate?”

 

He looks up. Chan looks every inch JYPE’s star idol-producer, down to the expensive glow of his skin. He accepts Chan’s hug while the Stray Kids manager looks on, trying to parse the English, but eventually returning to his phone.

 

“When did you get back?” Chan asks.

 

“Couple of weeks ago,” Jae answers, watching the floor numbers light up. “We’ve been in and out of here, working on stuff.”

 

“Oh,” Chan says, his voice changing tone. “Yeah—Jimin mentioned something about that. Did you finish anything?”

 

Suddenly Jae feels apprehensive again. It’s one thing for his band to take on the risk of making a political statement, and even for their partners to assent to it. It’s another thing for all the other artists and employees of the company to see it, to calculate the risk, to support it. And he figures Chan would be as supportive as anyone, maybe more—but he still doesn’t really know what to say.

 

“Just some stuff we released for free,” Jae answers finally, trying to play it off as inconsequential. He pulls at the edge of his beanie, wishing he still had his hair. “I forgot to send it to Jimin.”

 

“I think she saw it though,” Chan answers. The elevator dings, and the doors open. “I’ll ask her to send it to me.”

 

“Great,” Jae says. Chan gets off the elevator with a wave, and Jae waits for the doors to close again. As the elevator starts going up, he looks at his own reflection, the dark circles under his eyes standing out in the dim light. 

 

“Great,” he repeats.

 

When he reaches the practice room, Sungjin and Nayeon are standing outside the door. Jae slows, taking in their body language—both of them have their arms crossed over their chests while they speak in whispers. Sungjin notices him, and then Nayeon turns around and gives him an overly-cheerful hello. Her smile falls, and she stalks past him and back down the hall.

 

“Everything okay?” Jae asks, looking at Sungjin.

 

He’s still looking at the empty hallway in front of him, but he shrugs and makes a little frown. “Great. Just showed her the videos.”

 

“And?”

 

“She said ‘Are you trying to sabotage my acting career?’” Sungjin shrugs again and puts his hand on the door to the handle of the practice room. “I said we’re not dating, so it doesn’t have anything to do with her.”

 

He pushes open the door before Jae has a chance to say anything. The first person he sees inside is Brian, standing in the perfect spot to watch Sungjin storm into the room. Brian looks at Jae, who holds up his hands and gives a grimace of  _ yikes _ .

 

“Let’s get something done,” Sungjin says, picking up his guitar and pulling the strap over his head. “We still have an album to put out.”

 

Wonpil, sitting cross-legged on the floor, looks up from his phone and frowns. “There’s no rush—”

 

“We just put out a bunch of songs no one is listening to,” Sungjin says. “Which puts us behind on an actual, money-making album. There’s a rush.”

 

Wonpil doesn’t say anything, sucking in his lips and sidling over to his keyboard. Dowoon looks at Jae with wide eyes.

 

“So I guess we’re  _ not _ leaving the idol band thing behind?” Jae asks into the silence. He completely gets that whatever is happening with Nayeon has left Sungjin on edge, but that isn’t it. This runs deeper, reaching to the quick of something Jae can’t identify, but he doesn’t really like.

 

“Do you want to go the starving artist route?” Sungjin asks. “Are you starting an acting career? No? Then let’s get to work.”

 

Jae looks over at Brian, who sits down in a chair and crosses one leg over the other. He looks as stunned as Jae feels. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s get to work.”

  
  
  
  


 

Later, Jae and Brian go from the company building to a ramen place in Gangnam, sitting in the back as rain begins to slash at the windows.

 

“I think he’s just upset that the songs didn’t get much attention,” Brian says, gathering soup into his spoon. “He said something the other day that make me think he’s struggling to re-adjust to life out of the military.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“It started because of Wonpil’s house,” Brian says. “He was driving me home and he said, ‘I’ll never get to live in a house like that.’ I asked him if he really wanted to, and he said no, but he’d like something to show for his work at the end of all this.” Brian puts his elbows on the back of his chair and shrugs.

 

“Dowoon said something like that, too,” Jae says. “About how nothing in life is guaranteed.”

 

“We come back and we’re expected to just jump back into our old lives, but it doesn’t work like that. Everyone else has moved on. And we’ve changed while we were in the military.”

 

“And we can’t be an idol band forever, either.”

 

“No,” Brian agrees. “Not forever.”

 

They lapse into silence. Jae’s phone lights up with a text from Lim.  _ Just landed. Wish you were here~  _ His chest tightens. He really wishes they’d sorted out their disagreement before she left. It’s just eating at him in quiet moments, bringing with it a thought Jae would rather not have bugging him.  _ Did I do the right thing?  _

 

He can feel Brian’s eyes on his phone, so he clicks it off and pulls his attention back to the conversation.

 

"So maybe we're just being jerks," Jae says, "Making fun of him for hooking up with Nayeon."

 

"Yeah." Brian agrees. They sip their drinks for a moment. An old OneRepublic track echoes throughout the room.  _ They got all the right moves in all the right places, so yeah, we're going down. _ Brian scrolls rapidly through his private Instagram, chewing on the straw from his drink. Jae takes a moment to text Lim back a series of weird kissing gifs just to make her laugh. A truce, of sorts.

 

"Whoa," Brian says. He reaches out and grips Jae's arm, his eyes still on his phone. "Dude. Look at this."

 

Jae leans over to get a better look at Brian's screen. Someone is filming live, and it takes Jae a few seconds to make sense of the dark shapes and flashes of light. The shapes begin to consolidate into people standing under umbrellas, and the camera swings back to a large banner which spells out: 

 

THOUGH TIME PASSES AND HEARTS ARE HARDENED

FOR THE NEW GENERATION, THE WAR IS NOT FORGOTTEN

 

"That's from our song," Jae whispers, barely able to make sense of it. Brian turns up the volume on his phone and, sure enough, their song creaks out of the speaker, Sungjin's voice soaring into the bridge.

 

Brian looks back at Jae, reflecting back just how stunned Jae feels. "I guess someone is listening," he says.

 

"I guess so," Jae agrees, looking back at the phone again. "I can't believe it."

  
  
  
  


 

At home in his own bed, Jae scrolls through dozens of videos from the protest, texting a few of the clearest ones to his band's group message. Even Lim, texting him while on a break, replies with  _ wow, ppl are really responding to your art—this is amazing _ and he lies back, rubbing his hand over his buzzed hair and basking in the moment. This feels new, significant in a way none of his music has before. He sets his phone on the table beside him and takes a deep breath, filling up his chest with air and exhaling slowly, letting the weight of the moment rest upon him. They've done it.

  
  
  
  


 

He wakes up to fifty unread messages. The first one he sees on his phone is from Jimin.  _ Wake up you fuckin idiot you seriously have to wake up now _ .

 

He groans and rubs at his eyes. 7:45 AM—earlier than he usually gets up. He didn't even plan to go into the company before 10, at the earliest. He slides open his phone and blinks in the light.

  
  


_ 6:55 Park Jimin _

_ >yo Jae why is the Day6 youtube channel set to private? _

 

_ 7:00 Park Jimin _

_ >wait shit Jae your official instagram is gone? _

  
  


Jae frowns and rubs his palm over his face, setting his phone on his chest momentarily while he tries to make sense of Jimin’s texts. YouTube channel set to private? Gotta be a hack or a company strategy—only explanation. He opens his phone again.

  
  


**_band bros for life :D_ **

 

_ 7:00 Kim Wonpil _

_ >are u guys awake yet? _

 

_ 7:03 Kim Wonpil _

_ >guys… _

 

_ 7:15 YOUNG K _

_ >im awake what’s up _

 

_ 7:16 Kim Wonpil _

_ >we’re not on the JYP website anymore _

 

_ 7:18 YOUNG K _

_ >wait what do you mean? _

 

_ 7:19 Kim Wonpil _

_ >i mean go look at the website because day6 isn’t there _

 

_ 7:20 Yoon Dowoon _

_ >glitch? _

 

_ 7:21 Yoon Dowoon _

_ >wait what the hell _

 

_ 7:22 YOUNG K _

_ >instagram is gone _

_ >are we getting blacklisted? _

  
  


Now Jae sits up in bed, pushing himself back against the headboard and propping his elbows on his knees while his heart races forward. Blacklisted—surely their contracts prevent something like this, but—he doesn’t know. Something his dad said once rings in his ears.  _ You’d better be thinking of the worst-case scenarios every time you sign away the next three years of your life _ .

 

If it’s about the songs then it’s about the songs, but the company isn’t just going to erase the band as though they never existed because they released some songs on the internet without company permission, even if those songs were used at a political protest. Jimin went around the company to release music once and her team was miffed, but they were mostly just apologizing to her, because their hands were tied in getting an album pushed through the pipeline.

 

Heart in his throat, Jae turns his eyes back to his phone.

  
  


**_boss baby (manager-hyung)_ **

 

_ 7:25 Manager-hyung _

_ >Park Sungjin can you call me when you wake up? _

_ >all of you should come into the company today _

  
  


**_band bros for life :D_ **

 

_ 7:26 YOUNG K _

_ >shit _

 

_ 7:26 Kim Wonpil _

_ >what is happening _

 

_ 7:27 Yoon Dowoon _

_ >what _

  
  


**_boss baby (manager-hyung)_ **

 

_ 7:37 Park Sungjin _

_ >yes _

  
  


**_band bros for life :D_ **

 

_ 7:38 Park Sungjin _

_ >what the fuck is happening right now? _

_ >are we seriously getting in trouble like this? _

_ >our music is gone from Melon wtf _

  
  


Jae checks the timestamps on the messages. It’s all so recent—barely ten minutes ago. He unconsciously goes to push his hair back and finds only the soft fuzz of what’s left on his head.

  
  


**_Park Jimin_ **

_ 7:40  _

_ >listen Jae I just got to the company and this sounds like shit has hit the fan you’d better get here quick _

  
  


**_band bros for life :D_ **

_ 7:43 Park Sungjin _

_ >just got off the phone _

_ >the board of directors is going to meet with us today _

_ >where the hell is Jae _

  
  


**_Park Jimin_ **

_ 7:45 Wake up you fuckin idiot you seriously have to wake up now _

  
  


Jae quickly texts  _ I’m awake what the hell is going on _ to both chats and then sets his phone down beside him. A patch of sky is visible in the crack of his window curtains and he stares at the bright blue. Like the weather is laughing at him.

 

He catapults himself out of bed and yanks open the curtains. Sunlight pours into the room. Outside he can see the dark squares of the neighbors’ windows, criss-crossing dark wires and cars roaming the street below. It’s so peaceful, and here he is, with the familiar feeling of that shoelace laced through his chest being pulled tight. 

 

His phone dings and he picks it up again. Brian has texted one word.  _ Censorship. _

 

Jae throws his phone back onto the bed. “ _ So yeah, we’re going down, _ ” he sings under his breath, laughing helplessly, and then turns back to the brilliant bright sky.

  
  
  
  
  


They enter the large conference room in silence.

 

Jae observes the people who have joined them for this meeting. Besides their manager and larger promotions team, he also recognizes some of the leaders of other departments, including the legal department. He bows along with the rest of his band, feeling like he is moving on auto pilot. He's never been to court, but this has the aura of what he's seen in the movies. Like these people are the assembled jury, ready to examine their crimes and determine their guilt.

 

Before they can sit down, the door to the room opens again. Their CEO walks in, as well as Park Jinyoung. Jae glances sideways at his band members. They are all pale, and look as scared as Jae feels.

 

Everyone sits down. No one speaks. Jae resists the urge to pick at his fingernails, but he can't stop himself from bouncing his legs under the table, filled with too much nervous energy. He stops when Sungjin, without looking over, puts a hand on his arm.

 

"I never could have imagined this," Park Jinyoung says with a sigh, running his palm over his face. "This is—this is a bad situation."

 

Again, silence fills up the room. Jae can feel Sungjin's nerves vibrating off of him, like he's coiling up the energy inside him before it springs up as words pouring out of his mouth. He glances at Sungjin, and catches Brian's eyes on Sungjin's other side. They look at each other for a moment, then back across the table. The CEO is frowning at his phone.

 

"Why were we removed from the JYP Entertainment website?" Sungjin asks. His voice doesn't waver as he speaks. Jae is sure his own voice would waver, if he dared to speak now.

 

Park Jinyoung sighs. The CEO looks up at them over his glasses.

 

“Because this is a contract violation. At the end of this week, your contracts will be terminated.”

 

Time thickens and slows. Jae stares at the CEO, half-expecting a loud  _ sike! _ to follow, but the only sound is that of the clock on the wall behind them ticking forward.  _ Contracts terminated _ . Jae had said it, but he never believed it. He doesn’t quite believe it now.

 

Sungjin finds his voice. “What part of the contract did we violate?”

 

The head of the legal department speaks up, outlining the clauses they violated in fast-paced technical Korean that Jae doesn’t bother to try to follow. He focuses on other things instead: Brian’s deepening frown, the vein standing out on Sungjin’s temple, the white color of Wonpil’s knuckles as he grips the chair arms, Dowoon’s vacant stare at the opposite wall.  _ This is your fault _ , says a little voice in the back of Jae’s mind.  _ This was your idea _ .

 

“With all due respect,” Brian says when the woman finishes reading, “Those all sound like technicalities.”

 

The vibe in the room turns awkward. Jae watches the CEO shift in his chair, and Park Jinyoung steeples his fingers together in front of him. He’s not looking at them. No one is.

 

“This is much bigger than you,” Park Jinyoung says. He finally looks up at them. “There’s only so much any of us can do.”

 

And that’s when everything clicks together in Jae’s mind. The song lyrics at the protest. The uptick in views on their videos. They aren’t being terminated for a contract violation: the contract violation is merely an excuse to terminate them, on orders from the people who bankroll the company. The company is cutting their losses, sacrificing Day6 for the rest of their artists lest they find themselves on the wrong side of the government offices that approve their business ventures, domestic and foreign.

 

_ But if there’s a war, _ Jae wants to shout,  _ all of this will be destroyed, anyway. _ But it doesn’t matter. That world is hypothetical. The here-and-now is the five of them in this conference room, losing their jobs over a set of songs. He looks around the room, taking in the face of each person who he’s entrusted his career to over the last decade. And now this.

 

Jae spends the rest of the meeting in a daze. He hears the staff explaining the procedures and policies and other details, but none of it really registers. He signs on the dotted line when a severance agreement is put in front of him. He stands up and bows alongside the rest of his band, and files out with them, thinking dimly of the day he first signed his contract, fresh off Kpop Star with dreams of an endless career and worldwide fame. He agrees with Park Jinyoung—he never could have imagined this.

 

The band walks down the hall in silence to the elevators. They go up to their practice room and pack up the instruments they personally own, the sheets of music they’d been writing on, flash drives, odds-and-ends. Sungjin starts to take one of their music show awards off a shelf but their manager shakes his head—it’s owned by the company. Sungjin puts it back.

 

And then they go back down to the bottom floor, their instruments on their backs. Jae glances at the clock on the wall—it’s been fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to pack up an entire chapter of his life. 

 

Just as they reach the front of the building, the doors open from the other side. In walks the newest Twice subunit—Jihyo, Jeongyeon, Sana, and Momo—and they stop in their tracks, openly gaping at the guys.

 

“What are you doing?” Jeongyeon asks.

 

No one speaks, preferring to stare at the floor. Brian clears his throat. “We’ve, uh. Been fired.”

 

“You’ve been what?” Sana demands.

 

“Fired?” Jihyo repeats, looking between them. Their manager stands at the back, also gaping, and Jae wonders just how many people haven’t heard the news. It will spread quickly, though. Nothing spreads as quickly as gossip in this industry.

 

“Yep,” Sungjin says. He grins at them. “Turns out, free speech is just a pipe dream.”

 

The girls are all still gaping in shock, but Jae sees something shift in their eyes. They look mad. This surprises him, though he doesn’t know why. As for himself, he just feels numb.

 

“Well,” Brian says, “We should go.”

 

Jae looks over as Wonpil gives the girls what should be a comforting smile, but his eyes betray his true feelings. He gives a brief wave, and then they all turn to go.

 

They step out the doors, blinking in the sunlight. Jae hoists his guitar higher up on his shoulder and stuffs his free hand in the pocket of his coat. A bus passes on the street in front of them, adorned with Itzy’s faces across the side. Part of Jae, a part of himself he doesn’t often acknowledge, wants to blast the news from a megaphone. Hop on that bus and drive around the city broadcasting  _ you can have integrity or you can get paid—pick one! _

 

“So that’s it,” Brian says. “We’re not JYP artists anymore.”

 

“End of an era,” Jae echoes. It rocks him again, thinking about how all those people he’s known for years just stared at them coldly and fired them with no remorse. A chill pain tingles down his arms, into his fingertips, and he clenches his fist inside his pocket. “I’m sorry, guys.”

 

“You’re sorry?” Wonpil asks.

 

Jae shrugs, unable to look at the rest of them. “This was all my idea.”

 

Silence follows. Jae scuffs his shoe against the ground, thinking it over from that night outside the restaurant to now. It’s his fault, if he’s being honest, because no one would have done this if he wasn’t the one prodding them forward. And even if it was the right thing to do, there’s a big difference between imagining the consequences, and living them out.

 

He chances a glance up at the guys and finds them all looking back at him.

 

“Yeah, but,” Dowoon says, “We all wanted to do it.”

 

“We all agreed to this,” Sungjin echoes.

 

“And we’re all in this mess together,” Brian says.

 

“So—” Sungjin says, glancing around. “Are we keeping the band together?”

 

Jae considers it—what if they all parted ways now? JYP Entertainment made them a band; they wouldn’t be one without the company. Wouldn’t even know each other. Why should they remain a band?

 

Jae clears his throat, picturing himself on stage alone back in Los Angeles. Squinting through the stage lights at an indifferent crowd. “I tried to make a career without you guys,” he says. “It sucked.”

 

As far as he’s concerned,  _ why _ isn’t that hard to answer. If they aren’t disowning him after getting them into this mess, then Jae would rather stay with them than forge a new path. There’s so many years between them: fights and triumphs and quiet hospital stays and those magic moments when a song finally comes together. He remembers it all. In some kind of way, they’re family.

 

“We can’t let them break us,” Dowoon says next. He gives them a lopsided smile. “I’m not going down without a fight.”

 

“I think we’ve let you watch too many movies,” Brian says, tilting his head in skepticism.

 

Dowoon shrugs. “I’ve learned a few things, you know. And the first lesson from movies is, when the shit hits the fan, you’ve gotta regroup and come back stronger.” He looks around the circle, clapping his fist into his palm, and his eyes land on Jae. “Didn’t you want to say something that matters with our music?”

 

Jae laughs in spite of himself. “Yeah, we did.” He grins at Sungjin. “I say we stay together. Strength in numbers, you know?”

 

“Strength in putting up more content,” Wonpil says darkly. “They want to blacklist us? We should make sure people hear our songs.”

 

Sungjin breaks out into a slow, even grin. “Okay, then.”

 

If this were a movie, here’s where the soundtrack would start. Jae reaches into his pocket for his phone and hits play, bobbing his head as the music starts. “We need some mood music.” 

 

Sungjin grins. “You know, now that we’re not under a contract,” his grin grows wider, “We can say whatever the fuck we want.”

 

The music blares thinly from Jae’s phone speaker.  _ This is ten percent luck, twenty percent skill, fifteen percent concentrated power of will— _

 

“No one telling us what to do,” Wonpil says.

 

Jae’s head keeps bobbing in time with the music. Brian, listening to the lyrics, gives him a wry grin.  _ Five percent pleasure, fifty percent pain, and a hundred percent reason to remember the name. _

 

“I think it’s time we uploaded another video,” Brian says.

  
  
  
  


 

They rehearse, record, and upload the newest video in a twelve-hour time frame. It’s a cover of Bob Dylan’s “Masters of War,” which Jae and Brian quickly translate into Korean in order to subtitle. They set up a camera in Wonpil’s basement—nothing fancy, just the five of them and their instruments and a lot of anger that marches in time with Dowoon’s drums.

 

Jae stares right into the eye of the camera as he sings.  _ “I think you will find, when your death takes its toll, all the money you made, will never buy back your soul.” _

 

Now that his initial shock has passed, he’s angry. Pissed off. People might say they were unwise to express their thoughts, that they should have seen this coming—but is everyone just supposed to fall in line with the status quo to keep their jobs? Fuck that.

 

The song finishes and Jae just keeps staring into the glass eye of the camera. Maybe people will watch this and they’ll feel what he feels.  _ Fuck that _ .

  
  
  
  


 

It’s only after the video is uploaded and Jae is half-asleep on one of Wonpil’s leather couches that his phone rings and he realized he never called Lim. He texted her, but only  _ our contracts were terminated _ with no explanation, and that was hours ago.

 

His heart rate jumps as he answers the call, whispering “Hey,” into the phone and speeding out of the room. Sungjin is out on the other couch and Dowoon is asleep on the floor, but neither of them stir. Even so, Jae takes the stairs two at a time up to the rooftop balcony.

 

“I guess you’ve been busy,” Lim says on the other end of the line. Jae tries to read the emotion in her voice, but he can’t quite decide if she’s angry or not—he’d be angry, in her shoes.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “Honestly. I just—got so swept up in the moment.”

 

She makes an  _ mm _ sound and then goes quiet for a second, before continuing, “So your contracts were terminated?”

 

“Yeah.” He grips the iron rail on the balcony and stares out at the blank space of sky he can see between the rooftops and electrical wires. “I should have called you.”

 

“It’s—” she begins, but doesn’t finish with  _ okay _ . She just sighs. “What were you doing?”

 

“Making a new video.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“This is just—” He rests his elbows on the railing and rubs at his eyes. “It’s so unfair. I get reprimanding us, but terminating our contracts? Because of some videos? We’ve gotta be able to sue, or something.”

 

“Are you going to sue?”

 

“I don’t know.” Jae looks up at the haze of sky. He can’t see any stars through the clouds and lights, but he can see the moving dot of an airplane somewhere far overhead. “But I’ve got to do something.”

 

“Jae—” Lim begins, but then falls quiet again.

 

“What is it?”

 

She hesitates. He imagines her in her hotel room, curled up in bed, the television on mute while she chews at her nails. 

 

“Where does it end?” she asks. “I mean—you uploaded the music. You got your contracts terminated because of it. And now—what’s going to satisfy you? You can’t impeach the president. You can’t prevent a war.”

 

“I know,” Jae says, probably too quickly. Frustration begins to intermingle with his guilt. He can’t understand her, in this moment, when he needs her to tell him he’s justified and instead she’s just pointing out the holes in his plan. “But I’m not just going to lie down and wait for them to run over me. We’ve got to make our voice heard.”

 

Lim sighs again. “I’m not telling you to do that. I’m just asking what your end goal is.”

 

“I don’t know!”

 

A bird spooks at the sound of his voice and takes off, flashing black in the night. 

 

“I’m just asking because I care about you,” Lim says.

 

“Yeah, I know,” Jae says softly. “I know.”

  
  
  


 

 

_ 003 soundtrack _

[ 大石碎胸口 ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kZn4sz4rDJM) |  [ invisible sun ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1VuDjJ9KIxM) |  [ all the right moves ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GD4sArxRmX8) |  [ remember the name ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VDvr08sCPOc) |  [ masters of war ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZZFock7eMU&t=1996s)


	4. track 004 - sham city

track 004 - sham city

* * *

“Did you see the number of views?” is the first thing Wonpil says when he arrives at the door of Jae’s apartment on Sunday, carry-out jjajangmyeon in hand.

“Yeah,” Jae says, laughing a little in disbelief. Behind Wonpil is Jinyoung, standing with his hands fisted in his coat pockets. “I can’t believe all the videos shot up that much overnight.”

They’d all spent Saturday taking care of their personal finances and arrangements, calling family and friends, and reeling in the aftermath of getting fired as the news of their contract termination hit the media. Jae hadn’t even bothered to go outside, and wasn’t planning to do anything today until Wonpil called, announcing his plans to come over in an overly cheerful voice. Apparently, his good mood wasn’t just a fluke of telephone static.

Wonpil spins into the door, grinning from ear to ear, while Jinyoung watches with an amused smile. “That’s what happens when you make international news for getting fired,” Jinyoung says.

But Wonpil’s spirits can’t be dampened. He hums happily to himself while he raids Jae’s kitchen for utensils and cups, prancing from cupboard to cupboard so quickly Jae can’t find a time to jump in and help. He turns to Jinyoung instead.

“You okay?” he asks. It’s the best he can come up with in the moment, wanting to ask what’s going on in the company gossip circles, but a little afraid to ask directly.

Jinyoung shrugs as he pulls off his coat. “I feel kind of stuck in the middle, if I’m being honest. A couple of the staff have been texting me to ask if you guys are okay, and I don’t know how to explain…” He gestures at Wonpil, who is now doing the Running Man in the middle of Jae’s kitchen while singing  _ “What’s your name, man?” _ over and over under his breath. “That,” Jinyoung finishes.

“Do you think he’s in denial?” Jae whispers. Wonpil is as much of a company man as any of them—he’s been with JYPE for so long, he once accidentally referred to Park Jinyoung (the old one) as “Dad,” and not in a sexy way. (The rest of the band made fun of him, endlessly.)

Jinyoung drags his eyes away from Wonpil and gives Jae a thin smile. “Honestly? I think he’s just proud of you guys.”

Jae muses over that as Wonpil sets the bowls in front of each of them, still singing random lines from the  _ Hamilton _ soundtrack in nonsensical English gibberish. He wants to feel the euphoria that Wonpil feels, but instead he’s been fixated on trying to read between the lines of his and Lim’s texts and explaining to his parents how this doesn’t mean the death of his music career. And yet,  _ pride _ —that’s not an emotion he’s felt, yet, but judging by the way Wonpil is practically glowing, it must feel pretty darn good.

“So every major news outlet is covering you guys,” Jinyoung says as he holds chopsticks with one hand and his phone in another. “The articles are pretty neutral overall.”

“We can live with neutral,” Jae says. Wonpil scoots his chair around to the other side of the table to read over Jinyoung’s shoulder.

“I don’t think our labelmates feel neutral, though,” Jinyoung says, looking up at Jae. Wonpil scowls, obviously having heard the gossip already, and returns to his bowl.

“Our  _ former _ labelmates,” Wonpil says, staring at Jinyoung. The look at each other for a long moment, before Jinyoung finally just nods and turns back to his food. Jae can’t imagine how awkward it must be between them right now—Wonpil betrayed by the company, and Jinyoung still one of their most profitable artists.

“Jimin said Twice is pretty divided over this,” Jae says, trying to divert them back to gossip.

“And Got7,” Jinyoung says. “Though they’re not saying too much to me about it, obviously.”

Wonpil looks up at Jae. “Jaebum called Sungjin when he was at our house yesterday. It sounded really bad.”

“Well… Jaebum is the face of JYP Entertainment,” Jae says.

Jinyoung grimaces. “You haven’t even heard what Jackson has to say.”

They fall quiet for a moment, eating instead of talking. Then Jae speaks up again. “But how can they just—we’re talking about  _ war _ . Don’t they get that it’s worth speaking out against that?”

Jinyoung glances at Wonpil, then looks back at Jae again. “The thing is, we’re not at war yet.”

Wonpil sucks in his lips and then heaves a sigh and looks at Jae. “Jaebum says we were reckless and selfish. Jackson says we’re jeopardizing everyone’s work overseas by making Kpop political, when everyone’s been trying to keep things very neutral and untainted.”

“Nayeon  _ also _ thinks you were selfish and reckless, but in that order,” Jinyoung adds, “And Yubin-nuna thinks you’re exposing your partners to criticism, even though none of your relationships are public. Wooyoung-hyung is on your side, though, so that kind of surprised me.”

“Wooyoung-hyung is avant-garde now, remember?” Wonpil says.

“Oh, right, I forgot.” Jinyoung rolls his eyes and looks back at Jae. “Anyway, that’s just the people I personally talked to. Wait—Sunmi-nuna thinks you’re badass. I did hear that through the grapevine.”

“She obviously hasn’t talked to Lim recently, then,” Jae says without thinking.

The other two blink at him, obviously trying to gauge whether or not they should ask. Jae doesn’t know if he wants them to or not, so he keeps his eyes on his noodles and tries to look nonchalant.

“Is—everything okay?” Wonpil asks.

_ No _ , Jae thinks, remembering how Lim asked,  _ “Where does it end?” _

Maybe it ends here. They’ve made their point and gotten enough publicity to relaunch themselves as a new kind of band. Maybe that’s already enough.

“I hope so,” Jae says.

Later, after they’ve cleaned up and are trying to decide what to do on Wonpil and Jae’s second day of unemployment, Jinyoung’s face grows pale. “Can I put this up on your TV?” he asks Jae, his voice strangely quiet.

Jae flips the TV on and Jinyoung throws the video broadcast from his phone up to the screen. Jae’s living room wall is suddenly adorned with President Won, standing in front of other politicians, his black suit and blue tie perfectly coordinated to the decorations around him.

_...I have taken a strong stance because the people who voted me into this position expect a president who can reform this nation, _ The president is saying.  _ We are a thinking people, a contemplative people. We do not make political decisions based on the opinions of our pop stars, especially when celebrities have so often shown themselves to be corrupt beneath their beautiful facade. _

Jae freezes. “Is that—is that a jab against us, or against Hollywood?”

_ I take seriously the protests happening on our campuses and city streets. But this is not the 1980s. Our situation is different. The threats being made against us are different. And the will of the people is different. I vowed to lead this country, even if it were to lead to an otherwise undesirable war. I take counsel from the wisest and most experienced leaders, and I urge the public to do the same. YouTube videos are made for entertainment, not political analysis. _

“I think it’s a jab against us,” Wonpil says in a hushed voice.

“Well,” Jinyoung says. “Shit.”

“I’m starting to get the idea that this isn’t over yet,” Jae says.

  
  
  
  
  


He sees Wonpil and Jinyoung out the door and down to the parking lot, where they get into their car and drive away. Jae stands there for a minute, looking at the vacated road and the blue sky overhead. He takes in a deep breath of crisp air, and starts walking.

No one notices him as he walks. He spots some old ladies chattering happily in the nearby park, and a group of middle school girls skateboarding in the street, but the area is very quiet. It gives him too much time to think. Was he an idiot for trusting a company to take care of him, to do right by him, all these years? Was he an idiot for not realizing the people he trusted would throw him under a bus to save themselves and their profit margins?

Maybe. Maybe.

He goes into a convenience store and stares at the rows of drinks in front of him. He isn’t sure if he needs a beer or a soda or what. Maybe he doesn’t need anything; snacks aren’t going to take the edge off reality.

His phone buzzes and he pulls it out to see a text from Lim.  _ Are you ok? _

_ Isn’t it 1 AM there? _ He texts back.

_ Yes. Just worried about you _ .

He rubs his palm over his buzzed hair and takes a deep breath, trying to expand his ribcage under all the tight pressure he feels there. 

_ Everything is ok, _ he texts back.  _ Don’t worry~  _

He buys a beer and a coke and walks back slowly. The sight of late afternoon sunlight along the city streets releases the pressure in his chest, at least a little bit. In the past forty-eight hours he’s taken a huge career risk and lost everything because of it, but he’s also taken a huge career risk and seen people respond to it. Maybe, between optimism and pessimism, he’s just got to choose to take the optimistic path.

  
  
  
  


 

_ Monday, December 11, 2023 _

**_Breaking: Twice Nayeon dating Day6 Sungjin_ **

_ Twice Nayeon (28) is dating Day6 Sungjin (30). The JYP Entertainment couple was caught dating by Dispatch on multiple occasions (pictured below). _

_ The relationship was kept secret over the years but has been exclusively revealed by Dispatch today. _

_ The couple regularly met in parks, bars, and hotels for their dates. Dispatch even uncovered a picture of them on vacation in The Maldives.  _ _ Insider sources claim that the couple only met when they could sneak away from their schedules. _

_ “Sungjin was in love with Nayeon since trainee days,” said one of Dispatch’s exclusive sources. _

_ “When they were in a room together, you could sense a different energy,” said another. “Sungjin pursued her for a long time. Eventually, she gave him a chance.” _

_ For a popular idol like Twice Nayeon, dating a labelmate provided an easy excuse for the relationship. However, Day6’s contracts were terminated last Friday. Will the relationship be terminated as well? _

  
  


  1. _[+3452, -133] Wow JYP must be going crazy right now. JYP kids have always had that “good” image and now this. Maybe Nayeon will get fired too? ㅋㅋㅋㅋ_



  1. _[+2421, -129] So many pictures of them kissing, they can’t deny it_



  1. _[+1339, -228] Twice is on the way out the door and this comes out right before Nayeon’s new drama… They must have needed some media play_



  1. _[+920, -117] Why does Nayeon look so uncomfortable in all these pictures? Looks like Sungjin likes her more than she likes him_



  1. _[+499, -79] Have they been dating for years? I guess they let you stay in the band as long as you keep it within the company_



  1. _[+221, -39] Must be awkward now that he’s been fired… Day6 really must have done something bad or else Sungjin would’ve tried to stay with his girlfriend…_



  1. _[+17, -2] yikes, she should break up with him now that he’s been fired like this_



  
  
  
  


 

Jae wakes up to nearly a hundred text messages.

After Friday, seeing the number of notifications on his screen jolts him awake immediately. He pushes himself up in bed and quickly opens the first message, from Sungjin, which just reads  _ shit _ . He copied a link in it as well.

Jae clicks the link and opens the Naver article. The first thing he sees is a dimly lit but clear picture of Sungjin and Nayeon standing outside what looks like a bar, her arms around his neck and his around her waist, kissing deeply. Jae blinks at it. Sungjin’s message already makes a  _ lot _ more sense.

He keeps scrolling, barely registering the words of the article while he tries to get to the next picture. Besides the typical shots of them getting into the same car at night, there are others—holding hands in a park, standing at the check-in counter of a hotel, laughing outside a different bar. The pictures have been deliberately chosen to tell a story, he can tell. Sungjin is smiling in most of them, and Nayeon is scowling in a lot of them. (Except the next kissing one, which looks like it was taken in Japan. Nayeon is definitely not scowling in that one). The last picture is of them on a beach. It’s grainy and taken from a distance, but pretty obviously them—and it should say something about Jae’s state of shock that his first question is,  _ when did they go to The Maldives? _

He flips back to the group chat and scrolls quickly through the messages, which are mostly from Sungjin repeating  _ how did they get these _ in different ways and random people Jae knows texting to ask about the relationship. But all he can think is that the only reason these pictures have come out is due to their contract termination.

Brian’s question from Friday rings in his head.  _ Are we getting blacklisted?  _ As much as Jae thinks dating “scandals” are the stupidest thing in this entire industry, he can't deny that this is a strong hand to play against them.

An Epik High song starts ringing in his head, like a prophecy that had been made over this future. He goes to find it, sitting with the lyrics for a long time.  _ We got no answers, we got no answers. My timeline’s blowing up today. _

  
  
  
  


 

They all convene at Wonpil’s house for lunch, with enough food to potentially distract Sungjin from the deluge of netizen comments rolling across his screen every time he looks at his phone. “So,” Jae says under his breath to Brian as they enter the house, “They went to The Maldives together?”

“I know as much as you do,” Brian says with a shrug. “I guess it was more serious than we thought?”

“Serious enough for about a billion photos,” Jae says. “It’s like Dispatch was just storing these up, waiting for the opportune moment.”

“Maybe they were.” Brian gives him a look, and then stops talking as they enter the living room. Under the vaulted ceilings, Sungjin looks unusually small where he sits cross-legged on the large leather couch, frowning at his phone. Brian sets the carry-out boxes on the center table and flicks Sungjin in the forehead.

“Don’t look at comments,” Brian instructs, nodding toward his phone.

But Sungjin barely looks up, just shaking his head while his thumbs fly across the keyboard. “We don’t have a PR rep any more,” Sungjin says. “I’m trying to find us one.”

Jae sits down in one of the recliners and looks at Brian, whose wide eyes reflect how Jae feels. He hadn’t even thought about that yet—being fired means that they no longer have the entire JYP Entertainment infrastructure at hand to protect them. Jae had complained about and made fun of the stupid statements formulated by the PR department for years, but that didn’t mean he envied their job.

“Any luck?” Brian asks carefully, sitting cross-legged on the floor and taking the food out of bags.

Sungjin shakes his head. “Too expensive. Unless Jinyoung feels like footing the bill, we can’t afford it. And I’m not going to ask him, so don’t tell Wonpil I said that.”

Jae glances at Brian again. “Won’t say a word,” Jae says.

Sungjin gives a curt nod and throws his phone back on the couch. He leans back, closing his eyes and tilting his head toward the ceiling.

“I tried calling Nayeon,” he says. “She wouldn’t answer.”

Wonpil and Dowoon enter the room then, giving Sungjin nervous glances as they do so. Brian quietly hands them their food and says to Sungjin, “I’m sure this isn’t going well for her, either.”

“Well,” Sungjin says. “She probably feels vindicated. She said that uploading the songs was just asking for trouble and she wouldn't be surprised if it meant the end of my career.” He grins. “Guess I should have listened, eh?”

“It’s not the end of your career just yet,” Brian says.

Jae mulls over Sungjin’s words as he chews his lunch. The end of his career—at the very least, someone was coming after his reputation. Who would have cared before now that Sungjin and Nayeon were (sort of) dating? It was newsworthy only because of Twice, and before now, JYPE had always footed the bill to keep that news quiet. But that was then.

  
  
  
  
  


The day flies by. Sungjin’s phone rings constantly, and more than once, it’s a call from a reporter or an industry connection trying to scope out the truth. He turns it off after the sixth call, stalking out of the house to “get some air” and leaving the rest of them to awkwardly evade questions from their own friends who want the inside scoop.

All in all, Jae would describe the results of the news as “not great.” It gains more traction than it really should; when Wonpil turns on the television late in the afternoon, the pictures are plastered across the news. He turns it off immediately, but Sungjin already caught a glimpse, and he just scowls at the black screen. When Jae goes down to the convenience store, the employees are talking about it. They barely seem to notice Jae, more focused on the pictures of Nayeon on their phone. The pictures look recent, and judging by her puffy eyes and medical mask, she’s not handling the news well. Or she’s milking it for all it’s worth. In this industry, it could be both.

By the end of the day, most of the comments have shifted towards defending Nayeon at Sungjin’s expense. But the view count of all of Day6’s new videos has shot up by the thousands. So as a defamation strategy, Jae isn’t totally sure this one is working that well.

He packs up his stuff to leave and goes in search of Wonpil, finally finding him in the glass-enclosed pool room, sitting on a lounge chair and staring at the sky beyond the glass.

“Hey,” Jae says, stepping into the room. His voice echoes back to him. “I’m heading out.”

“Okay.”

“You okay?”

Wonpil doesn’t say anything for a moment, then looks at Jae and says in a small voice, “What if they release more pictures?”

Jae can hear from Wonpil’s tone of voice that this isn’t just a simple worry, but something running deep. So he goes into the pool room and sits down in the lounge chair next to Wonpil’s.

“You mean of Sungjin? Or of the rest of us?”

Wonpil turns his gaze back to the glass ceiling, chewing at his lip.

“I never told you guys,” he says, “But there were—someone had pictures of me and Jinyoung. This was about five years ago, and I never saw them, but—the company paid them off. For a lot of money. So they must have been pretty bad.”

Jae blinks, and then slides his bag off his shoulder and rests his elbows on his knees. “They won’t release those, Wonpil. They’ve always drawn the line at outing celebrities against their will.”

“Unless Brian is right and they’re going to try to blitz our reputation.” Wonpil gives a small smile and shakes his head. “I don’t want to ruin Jinyoung’s acting career.”

He looks so vulnerable as he says it, Jae momentarily gapes for words. For all the teasing and bickering they’ve exchanged over the years, Jae can’t pretend like Wonpil isn’t one of his favorites, giving meaning to the whole idea of  _ dongsaeng _ . It hurts him, to see Wonpil so fearful.

“You won’t,” Jae says firmly. “Even if those pictures get released, it’s 2023. Not 1983. The world has changed.”

Wonpil shrugs. “Maybe.” He turns to look at Jae. “You know, even if it’s just words on the internet, the nasty comments will still hurt.”

Jae heaves a sigh and holds out his hand. Wonpil takes it, gripping firmly, the glitter of tears evident in his eyes.

“If they do that,” Jae says, tightening his grasp on Wonpil’s hand, “Then we’ll blitz them right back. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He sits with Wonpil for a few minutes, until Wonpil insists he go home, and Jae finally trudges out of the pool room. Jinyoung is standing in the living room as Jae closes the glass door behind him.

“How is he?” Jinyoung asks.

Jae turns to look back into the room. Wonpil has sat up, looking up at the sky again.

“Worried,” Jae says. “He’s worried that more pictures will get released, and your acting career will be ruined.”

“My acting—like that really matters.” Jinyoung laughs, incredulous. He gestures at the lavish house around them. “What do you think all this is  _ for? _ ”

Jae claps a hand on Jinyoung’s shoulder. “Maybe you should go remind him of that.”

Jinyoung nods, then enters the pool room. Jae waits for a minute to watch them, and then he turns and heads out the front door, his heart heavy as he walks out into the dark street.

  
  
  
  
  


_ Tuesday, December 12, 2023 _

**_Breaking: Day6 Young K’s current and past girlfriends revealed_ **

_ Day6 Young K (30) was spotted with his current girlfriend, who is not a celebrity. The former JYP Entertainment artist was caught on many dates by Dispatch over the past several years, including in relationships with Baek A Yeon (30), Red Velvet Wendy (29), and Blackpink Rosé (26), as well as other non-celebrities. _

_ His numerous relationships were the cause of much interest within the industry but kept quiet by his former agency. _

_ Young K is well-known in idol circles as a “romance maniac” whose song lyrics reflect his significant dating experience. _

_ As Young K’s contract has recently been terminated with JYP Entertainment, sources claim that he will soon marry his current girlfriend, who is Chinese but working in Korea. _

  
  


  1. _[+980, -45] A girl from each of the Big 3, a black girl, a white girl, and a Chinese girl… seems like he needs to sample every flavor… ㅋㅋㅋㅋ_



  1. _[+760, -33] Now that Day6’s contracts have been terminated, the truth comes out… seems they are not as professional as they pretended. But JYP won’t protect them now_



  1. _[+542, -26] With this many relationships I wonder if he can be satisfied with one woman_



  1. _[+316, -17] Seems like he just dates girls to get more ideas for song lyrics_



  1. _[+280, -9] In this case the girls all seem innocent… It’s so easy to believe a man loves you but really he’s just using you while thinking about the next girl. Poor Rose is so much younger than him, too._



  1. _[+100, -8] How can he date a Chinese in times like this…_



  1. _[+76, -2] seems like there are lots of secrets about Day6. No one in the entertainment industry is clean_



  
  
  
  
  


Once the news of Brian’s relationship hits the internet, Jae realizes that JYP Entertainment has really, royally screwed them over.

Without any agency to release a “we are checking with our artist and will make a statement soon” comment, the articles spin quickly out of control. When Jae wakes up, the Naver post is the only article. By the time he heads out the door for lunch, there are dozens, the most outrageous of which insist that Annie is a Chinese spy. (This one has way too many comments on it considering how obviously absurd it is.)

SM and Baek A Yeon’s new agency release statements almost immediately. They can’t deny the pictures, but they both say something to the effect of “the relationship was short-lived and they broke up a long time ago.” In Baek A Yeon’s case this is not true; she and Brian dated for well over a year. YG, predictably, does not release a statement until hours after the news hits, and the statement they do release just says “They have broken up.”

Brian takes the time to call his other non-celebrity exes who are in the photos, one of whom has returned to her home country (Ireland). The other (a fellow Canadian—Brian has a thing) still works in Korea, and as she and Brian are on good terms she comes by the house, but it’s mostly because she misses Wonpil. She seems pretty much unaffected by the news, but wishes them well. “You guys are brave,” she says as she’s leaving. “Stupid, but brave.”

“Should  _ I _ release a statement?” Brian asks when they reconvene in the living room, staring helplessly at his phone. “I mean—how would I even go about doing that?”

“There are people who would help,” Wonpil says. He still has the drawn, somber expression he’d worn last night when Jae left the house. “I’m sure of it.”

“Yeah, but it might make things worse,” Sungjin says.

“You’re not one to avoid a fight,” Brian points out.

Sungjin just shrugs, picking at his food. “I might avoid one I stand no chance at winning.”

They fall quiet. Brian puts his phone down, eats a few bites, and then picks his phone back up again. Jae glances at his own phone, and sure enough, a text from Lim flashes on the screen.  _ We’re probably next _ .

Jae clears his throat. “Maybe the best thing is to put up another video. Give people something else to talk about, you know? There’s a protest happening next week, before President Won gives that big presidential address.”

The others look around at each other. “We could,” Sungjin says, noncommittal.

Brian looks up from his phone again. “There’s clearly a lot of people trying to take us down any way they can,  so we need to be honest with each other now, before the news comes out. Is there anything we haven’t told each other? Illicit dates? A secret love child?”

He looks around the circle before looking directly at Wonpil next to him. Wonpil frowns, and points at his chest. “Why are you looking at me? I’m gay.”

“Because I don’t want to make them too nervous to answer,” Brian says, gesticulating at the other three.

Jae glances at Sungjin, who just rolls his eyes. Dowoon takes a massive bite of noodles.

“But you’re looking at me like I’m supposed to answer,” Wonpil says, “and now I’m worried that I have a secret love child.”

“You don’t have a secret love child. And it was just an example—”

“But how do I  _ know _ ?” Wonpil cries.

Brian sighs. “Have you ever had sex with anyone who can get pregnant?”

Wonpil blinks at him. “No.”

“Then you don’t have a secret love child. There’s only one way pregnancy happens.”

Jae pipes up. “Well, technically, with the advancement of modern science, there are some other ways.”

“How is that helpful right now?” Brian says. He holds up a hand. “Look at Wonpil. He’s freaking out.”

“Um,” Jae says, “A dedication to facts is  _ always _ helpful? We have to set a precedent or next thing you know, Wonpil is refusing to vaccinate his imaginary son.”

“Why did you say ‘son’?” Wonpil demands. “Isn’t that kind of specific?”

“Wonpil, you  _ don’t _ have a secret love child,” Brian groans.

“I’m just saying, do you ever really  _ know _ ?” Wonpil says.

By this point, Sungjin is laughing hysterically and Dowoon has polished off his food just to lie down on the floor and let out a deep belly laugh. Jae finds himself laughing, too, and it feels so good to laugh. To just—not  _ care _ , even for a moment, about how everything is falling apart around them. Brian and Wonpil start laughing, too.

The laughter subsides after a while and Sungjin sits up. “The industry is really conspiring against us,” he says. “It’s pretty weird.”

“You wanna take on giants,” Jae says, “I guess you gotta be prepared to get stepped on.”

“Yeah,” Sungjin echoes. “I guess so.”

  
  
  
  
  


_ Wednesday, December 13, 2023 _

**_Breaking: Day6 Jae dating former Wonder Girls Hyerim_ **

_ Day6 Jae (31) and former Wonder Girls member Hyerim (31) have been dating for nearly two years. They began their relationship in their former agency, JYP Entertainment. _

_ After the Wonder Girls disbanded, Hyerim attended university and has since been working for SBS as a celebrity host and translator. She recently received credit on several news stories and is currently in New York City reporting on the summit attended by President Won. _

_ JYP Entertainment terminated Day6’s contracts last Saturday for undisclosed reasons. _

_ Dispatch sources claim the couple will get married within the next two years. They are regularly spotted together in Seoul and Los Angeles. _

  
  


  1. _[+1193, -115] With Day6 showing they are anti-President Won, it seems like a conflict of interest for Hyerim to be working at the summit, doesn’t it? tsk tsk_



  1. _[+985, -98] They seem to match well which says something about Hyerim. She shouldn’t be on the news_



  1. _[+660, -52] Day6 is really different from what I thought_



  1. _[+444, -21] Everyday something new about Day6… wonder what will come next_



  1. _[+254, -13] The problem isn’t that they were dating or that they hid it but that their new anti-Won music affects everyone around them… It’s one thing for them to release the songs but consider how Hyerim must be feeling every time she works on a project now. In the end I wonder if she is anti-Won too_



  1. _[+93, -8] Sungjin just looks silly compared to these last two… Wish they’d stayed in North America_



  1. _[+88, -5] so brazen but they aren’t that famous_



  
  
  
  


 

He expected it. But when his own dating news hits the internet, Jae still feels like he’s been given a sucker-punch to the gut.

He wakes up to the pictures, right as they’re released, because at this point the ominous knowledge of impending tabloid doom has made it difficult for him to get much sleep. The first picture is recent: the two of them holding hands walking around Hongdae, just a few weeks ago. He immediately feels sick to his stomach. He hadn’t even noticed anything out of the ordinary, much less suspected someone was taking their photo. He’d always heard that celebrities knew when this was happening, but it turns out that is just wishful thinking.

He scrolls through the other photos quickly, just glancing to see when his privacy was invaded so that he can feel weird about those memories for the rest of his life, and he forces himself to stop scrolling before he reaches the comments.

Then he takes a deep breath, and calls Lim.

“You saw?” is the first thing he says when she picks up the phone.

“Yeah,” she says. “I saw.”

She sounds like she’s been crying, and this is another punch to the gut. He shifts to push himself up against the pillows and sighs. “You okay?”

“I guess so,” she says. A long pause follows. 

“It’s good not to have to hide, though,” Jae says, trying to lighten the mood.

But she’s quiet on the other end of the line. He can hear her breathing, but she doesn’t say anything, and he wishes he’d pushed the button for a video call instead. Maybe if he could see her, he wouldn’t feel this horrible sense of dread pooling in his stomach with every second that passes.

“The producers are pulling me off this project,” she says.

Jae stares at the wall in front of him and tries to find words. “They—what? Why?”

Another long pause. Jae feels like the laces have been strung through his chest again, pulling his rib cage tighter and tighter together.

“It’s a sensitive story,” she says, “And I’m in the headlines right now. So they’re keeping my translations but re-shooting all the on-camera bits I filmed.”

“How can they  _ do _ that?”

“They’re just cutting their losses.” Lim shuffles around on the other end of the line and gives a light laugh. “Just like JYP.”

“But that’s so unfair.”

Jae understands it more than he wants to admit. He can imagine the commenters are calling her anti-President Won, just for being associated with Jae and his band.

“Well,” Lim says, “It’s just business.”

She didn’t say  _ it’s because of your choices _ , but Jae can hear it underneath her words. She’d never been on board with his plans, but she had supported him how she could, and here were the consequences of them trying to split the difference.

“I’m really sorry, Lim,” Jae says.

“I know.”

He doesn’t know what to say after that. They just sit in silence, listening to each other breathing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Lim says finally. They say goodbye, and hang up the phone.

  
  
  
  


 

He feels worse, after that. His bandmates call him, but he doesn’t answer, preferring his alone time. He puts his music on shuffle and lets it flood the house while he goes around doing odd chores and trying to breathe through the pressure in his chest. At some point one of their own songs comes on and he stands in the middle of his kitchen, waiting for the moment when Brian belts out  _ Why am I alone? _ As soon as the moment comes, Jae has to screw his eyes up tight and take several deep breaths.

He really can’t blame Lim if she’s angry. The truth is, he'd do it all over again, but he knows—this is his fault. He knows.

  
  
  
  


 

_ Thursday, December 14, 2023 _

**_Breaking: Day6 Dowoon’s former lover_ **

_ Day6 Dowoon (28) is known to be a playboy. An anonymous source contacted Dispatch with photos of Dowoon and his former lover, and we can exclusively reveal that the woman he met in Japan is also famous as a blogger pushing an anti-Korean agenda. _

_ The photos show Dowoon and his lover posing in a bar. They would often meet for drinks before proceeding with other activities. _

_ Her blog posts suggest that she often sought out K-Pop stars in Japan to seduce them. However the intimate photos suggest Dowoon was not ignorant to her schemes and met with her happily. _

  
  


  1. _[+2397, -68] How can he sleep with this woman who makes it clear she hates all Koreans? Disgusting_



  1. _[+1998, -50] This is the worst release yet_



  1. _[+1748, -63] I’m so disappointed in Dowoon who had such an innocent image_



  1. _[+353, -27] They are all so obsessed with sex they don't care if the woman is like this?_



  1. _[+222, -19] What a shame that they seem not so bad in comparison to other idol scandals… although they are lacking, if they were the type to assault women, we’d be reading about that… so they are not good, but sadly, they are still not the worst_



  1. _[+95, -8] Dowoon should reflect for a long time about this_



  1. _[+15, -2] Day6 is not the band we thought they were_



  
  
  
  
  


“So,” Sungjin says the next morning outside Wonpil’s front door, where the four of them all stand watching Dowoon lope up the front path, “Who  _ is _ that girl?”

Dowoon frowns. “Dunno.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Dowoon purses his lips and scrunches up his eyes and nose as he looks around. “No idea.”

“Is it you in the photo?” Brian asks, showing Dowoon an image on his phone. Dowoon’s face is only half-visible in the photo, so they’ve been debating all morning about whether or not it’s really him.

Dowoon shrugs without taking his hands out of his pockets, so his arms flap at each side. “Seems like it. I mean, that’s my jacket, that I lost in— _ oh _ .” He winces. “Yeah, that’s definitely me.”

“Dowoon—”

“In my defense, I was  _ fairly _ drunk. And I didn’t know anything about her when we met. She was just a pretty girl, and I’m just a pretty boy, and you know how one thing leads to another.” He tilts his head and gives them a bashful smile.

“This is why we never ask you about your love life,” Sungjin says.

  
  
  
  


 

There’s not much to be done. Their dating stories dominate the headlines by sheer virtue of having a new “scandal” every day. Most articles have a question mark in the place where Wonpil’s picture will go, and he blanches every time he sees it. They all agree that tomorrow they will have to put out a statement, and Jae is already prepared to let the entire universe know exactly where they can shove it if they dare say anything cruel about Wonpil.

At this point, few of their friends from JYPE are taking their calls or sending them messages anymore. It’s isolating in a way that Jae never could have predicted. The five of them are sitting around a sun-filled living room in the middle of the afternoon, reading articles calling them political nutjobs and yet without any access to the same entertainment world that’s talking about them.

Jae falls asleep worrying.

  
  
  
  


 

He wakes up at dusk to Sungjin nudging his shoulder. “Come on,” Sungjin says. He holds up his other hand, with two cans of beer. “Let’s go up to the roof.”

Jae follows him in a sleepy daze. When they reach the roof, the sky is a blazing orange painting, wide brush strokes of sunlight streaked across the deep blue sky. They sink into the old lawn chairs and pop open their beers, sitting for a moment in companionable silence.

“Brian went to check on his girlfriend,” Sungjin says. “Dowoon went to try to console his parents. Wonpil’s still here, but he wanted to be alone.”

Jae nods, sipping his beer and watching the sky above him. It’s so beautiful, it aches deeply in his chest.

“Lim is mad at me,” he says. He hasn’t wanted to share this with the others, unsure of how they’ll take it and what advice they’ll try to give. He doesn’t want any advice, just resolution. “Her boss pulled her off a project that she worked her ass off for.”

Sungjin bobs his head slowly, frowning at the sunset before them. “It’s bullshit.”

“Yeah.” Jae looks over and taps his foot against the leg of Sungjin’s chair. “You okay?”

He leans back in the chair, frowning at his hands. Jae muses over how irritable Sungjin has been recently, that coiled-up anger affecting every interaction, but Sungjin seems almost calm, now.

“I think I spent a lot of time trying to be the guy everyone else wants me to be,” Sungjin says softly. “I pretend like I don’t care, but you know I do. And when I finally do something that matters to  _ me _ , it blows up in my face.”

Jae nods. “Yep.” 

“I’ve never been able to do anything halfway.”

Jae laughs, thinking back over the years. “No. But that’s a good thing.”

Sungjin taps his fingers against the chair, a dark look crossing over his face.

“This whole thing with Nayeon was just—I don’t know. Companionship? But somewhere along the way, it meant more to me than to her, and that just—it  _ sucks _ .”

Jae doesn’t know what to say, in response to that. He’s never, in all these years, heard Sungjin admit something like this, not about a girl. Certain topics were off-limits for Sungjin, only to be expressed in a noraebang, or maybe his own song lyrics. The fallout of their entry into politics is affecting them in more ways than Jae could have imagined.

“Maybe we never should have done it,” Jae says. “If we hadn’t, I mean—you’d still be with Nayeon. Lim wouldn’t be mad at me. Wonpil wouldn’t be worrying himself to death.”

“Don’t say that.” Sungjin shakes his head, leaning forward so the sunlight catches against his face. “There are times when you’ve got to decide which path your headed down, and I—I don’t regret this one. Even if we were idiots, we were trying to do the right thing.”

_ The right thing _ . Somehow, Jae isn’t sure what that even means right now. The eyes of everyone in this country and a lot of people outside of it are watching them, judging them. Jae can feel that gaze burning him right through his skin down to his bone.  _The right thing_ is, maybe, just a fantasy born of their naivety. These thoughts roll around in his head, popping in different directions and leaving him unsettled. Because the truth is that he'd probably do this all over again. Thinking of the songs, he really did mean what he said in them. But no matter what scenario he plays out in his head, he still ends up back at the  _the right thing_ , like a bullheaded fool.

“I just don’t want them to come after Wonpil,” Jae says. “It’s  _ Wonpil _ . He’s tough, but it’s not fair.”

“They’ve got what they wanted. It’s got to stop now.”

“What if tomorrow they don’t release anything about Wonpil and instead they reveal Dowoon’s surprise love child?”

Sungjin blanches. “Don’t say that. That’s not funny.”

“Anything is possible,” Jae laughs.

“That’s really not funny.”

They sit in silence for a while, until the sun has disappeared and the sky is a deep blue dome overhead. Jae has a song stuck in his head, and he keeps humming those last lines to himself, like a promise he’s making himself for the future.  _ I am the storm. I am the storm. I am the storm. So wait. _

  
  
  
  


 

_ Friday, December 15, 2023 _

**_Breaking: Day6 Wonpil dating Got7 Jinyoung_ **

_ Day6 Wonpil (29) and Got7 Jinyoung (29) have been dating for six years, as exclusively revealed by Dispatch today. Their relationship was an open secret within the industry but protected from the public by JYP Entertainment. _

_ The couple own a house in Hannam and regularly take lavish vacations around the world. Though Wonpil’s contract with JYP Entertainment was terminated last week, Jinyoung remains an actor and idol under the same company. His most recent drama, Follow the Stars, has received consistently high ratings up until now. _

_ Fans will be shocked to see the extent of this relationship, though whether it can withstand the pressure of Wonpil’s contract termination remains to be seen. _

  
  


  1. _[+5873, -20] This isn’t a scandal_



  1. _[+4624, -102] I guess Dispatch thinks this is the worst of all their Day6 stories, just because it’s a gay couple? But compared to the rest of his band, Wonpil is the only one who looks clean…_



  1. _[+3258, -112] Jinyoung’s acting must be better than I thought. I really thought he was in love with his co-star last year but turns out he was in love with his label mate all along_



  1. _[+1115, -117] They are very cute… Shame on Dispatch_



  1. _[+2880, -100] A shame Wonpil’s band members are so thoughtless. They should follow his example and find a stable relationship for six years_



  1. _[+548, -38] In the past Dispatch always refused to release this kind of pictures, so why did they change their minds now? Seems like they wanted to make Day6 look bad but in the end this just makes Dispatch look bad_



  1. _[+332, -22] Kpop fans are always imagining who is dating who but this is the only relationship reveal since Taeyang and Min Hyo Rin that seems good_



  
  
  
  


 

After the news breaks, Jae tells himself not to open his social media, but he does anyway, his thumb moving out of a 21st century compulsion that he probably should try to break. The first thing he sees is that Jinyoung has uploaded a picture to his public Instagram.

It's just a picture of Wonpil, with the caption "1," nothing especially significant from first glance. But Jae recognizes it as having been taken about six years ago by the pale pink hue of Wonpil's hair. It's just Wonpil, smiling into the camera with a hazy skyline behind him, but there's something intimate in the gaze of the camera and the casual warmth of Wonpil's expression. The comments showing below the picture, one in Korean and one in English, read  _ "We support you!" _

Jae heaves a sigh of relief. Even if his own relationship reveal garnered hateful comments he still isn't opening, he and the rest of the band were only ever really concerned about Wonpil. He dares to open another photo, and the comments are more of the same, pages full of positivity intended to bury anything else.

Over the next few hours, Jinyoung uploads more photos. "2" shows Wonpil laughing on a plane, blue sky visible in the small window behind him. "3" is a selfie of the two of them, holding glasses of wine. "4" is a close-up of what looks like Wonpil's hand against a table, with a solid silver band around his ring finger. "5" is a picture of the two of them with buzzed heads, on leave from military duty, pictured from behind as they look out a large glass window to the Seoul skyline below them. And "6" must have been taken in Italy, a snapshot in a quiet moment, Wonpil's arm draped over Jinyoung's shoulder, both of them looking into the camera like they're daring someone to guess their secret.

The seventh picture comes late in the afternoon, and it's a picture of Jinyoung at the interview schedule he must have gone to that morning. The picture looks like it's from an official outlet, and Jinyoung is holding up his hand to wave to the cameras. In the palm of his hand, he'd written the number 6 in dark ink.

_ Six years to build a life, _ the caption reads.  _ Six days to destroy a career. #day6 _

Jae gapes at his phone. He expected Jinyoung to show support for Wonpil, but this was support for the whole band, for their endeavor, for justice. Somehow Jae didn't really expect Jinyoung to jeopardize his own career in that way.

Later, at Wonpil's house, Jinyoung just shrugs when Jae asks him, smudging the six with his thumb. "Don't think too much of it," he says. "I'm just doing what a celebrity does."

  
  
  
  


 

_ Saturday, December 16, 2023 _

_ Hello, this is Day6. _

_ One week ago, our former agency, JYP Entertainment, released a statement that our contracts had been prematurely terminated. This was as surprising to us as it was to our fans. Though we cannot disclose the technicalities of the contract violations, we ask that fans view our new YouTube channel and listen to our most recent music to evaluate our work. _

_ Since the contract termination, we have been in the daily news in stories about our dating lives. These articles were written in such a way as to unfairly cast doubt on us and our partners. These articles have also already caused damage to our partners’ careers and we will take legal action where possible. While several of our relationships would have been revealed to the public at some point in the future, Dispatch has cast a shadow over the news in an effort to damage our credibility, and the collateral damage is unacceptable. _

_ We do not make music with the expectation that all our fans will agree with the message. But as artists we see that this moment in history requires us to write about topics other than romance. Ironically, our real romances are being used to undermine the messages of our newest songs. We ask that the public consider these messages independently of the news. _

_ Thank you, _

_ Park Jaehyung _

_ Park Sungjin _

_ Kang Younghyun _

_ Kim Wonpil _

_ Yoon Dowoon _

  
  
  


They upload the statement to Jae’s and Dowoon’s Twitter accounts, the only official social media they still have access to. Within minutes, the retweets shoot up into the thousands. It may be a relic of an earlier age, but in that moment, Jae is really glad it still exists.

After the statement, they link to their new YouTube videos. With the success of their first Bob Dylan cover, it makes sense to record another cover out of the vast catalogue of protest music they’ve amassed in the past weeks. The team votes for “A Change Is Gonna Come,” which Jae finds wholly intimidating.

But as they begin to practice, Jae listens to the lyrics—really listens, his fingers frozen on his guitar strings as Brian helps Sungjin learn the refrain.  _ It's been a long time, a long time coming. But I know a change gonna come, oh yes it will. _

Jae hates crying, and puts so much effort into not crying that he should probably take it as a cue to go see a shrink. But listening to those lyrics, he’s got tears stinging his eyes. One slips down his cheek and he immediately swipes it away and turns around so the others won’t see him. 

He regrets getting them into this mess. But when he hears songs like that, all the dark and gnawing doubts disappear, leaving behind a cool sense of resolve. That’s all he’s trying to do, here. Give people a shape to the anger and sadness and fear swirling up inside of them, spilling out with no direction.

They record the song and upload it. When he plays the video back later, Jae can see that his eyes are glistening in the light.

  
  
  
  


 

Lim returns on the last flight of the night.  _ Don’t come into the airport _ , she texts him when her flight lands.  _ We don’t need to give anyone a photo op _ .

Jae, just inside the doors of the terminal, clicks off his phone and returns to the parking lot. He’s not about to argue over something like this when her return already seems fragile, every text message laden with too much meaning. And he’s so exhausted, he feels like he’s all too likely to say things he doesn’t really mean.

Lim comes out the doors dragging a suitcase and looking small and tired under the industrial lighting. Jae grips the steering wheel while she loads her own suitcase into the trunk of his car and then climbs into the passenger seat, pecking a cursory kiss on his lips before turning to buckle her seatbelt.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, pulling smoothly back into the stream of traffic. He can’t see any photographers, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

“Not really,” Lim says in a flat voice.

“How was the flight?”

“Long.” She fumbles around for her water bottle and then takes a long drink. “I couldn’t really sleep.”

He hates this. He considers just hashing it out right there, but he really wants to be able to look her in the eyes and see for himself the expression on her face when she says  _ “I told you so” _ or something like it.

They don’t talk much for the rest of the drive. Jae turns up the volume on the Epik High song spilling out of his speakers.  _ Who said love is sweet? 우린 매일 싸워, every second, minute, every damn hour.  _ Ironic timing. He glances over and he can tell Lim is listening, too.

Her apartment smells like flowers and central heating, and he stands in the middle of the living room while she walks around putting items back in their places and pouring them each a glass of water and plugging her phone into charge and then standing in the corner of the room frowning at the glowing screen, like it’s got more to say in this moment than he possibly could. It’s right then, looking at her as she chews her bottom lip, that his heart stutters, and he knows.

She looks up at him, the overhead lights reflected in her eyes. They look at each other.

“Are we going to talk?” Jae forces out.

He feels like he’s dreaming as she sits down on her couch—off-white; he remembers helping her order it, and how she’d held a picture of some designer living room clenched in her left hand while she ran her right hand over fabric samples and asked him  _ but how long will we really use this? _ and he’d gotten stuck on the  _ we _ but was too scared to say anything—and she leans forward, dropping her face into her hands.

“I don’t know what to talk about.”

He sits down next to her and places his palm against her back. She leans toward him in a movement that seems instinctual—two years isn’t a short time, after all, and he finds himself staring at her hands, his eyes tracing the jagged shape of her cuticles, the smooth ovals of her fingernails, the constellation of freckles on the back of her hand. She’s so familiar to him, someone he knows better than almost anyone else, but right now, she’s so far away.

“We could talk about your work,” he says. “And whether or not you’re mad at me.”

She pulls her head out of her hands and looks up at him. “Jae—” she begins. Something pulls at his stomach, like he’s walking across the deck of a rolling ship. She shakes her head. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s like I told you, they’ve pulled me off this story, but as long as I’ve got this ‘Anti-Won’ label on me, I’m not really suited for the mainstream outlets, and the other channels I know of don’t want to work with a former Kpop idol because it de-legitimizes them somehow, and I just—this is what I was afraid of.”

Jae’s brow furrows and he shakes his head hard. “You were afraid of  _ this? _ Come on, Lim—these people should have your back. You couldn’t have expected it would turn out like this—”

“And maybe you trust people too easily! I tried to warn you that you were risking a lot more than you realized, and every time you ignored me and did what you wanted to do.”

“I never ignored you—”

“Did you  _ ever _ really, really consider not going through with your plan after a conversation with me?”

She stares at him and he stares back, unable to speak.

“No,” she answers for him. 

More silence follows. He lets his hand fall away from her back and hunches over himself, struck by how cold this feels. How he wants to hold her, and wants to shout, and wants to run away, and wants to fight this out. He can’t look her in the eyes.

“I get that you believed this was important,” she says, “and honestly I respect that, but you never seemed worried about the cost.”

He rubs his fingers against his brow. “The cause seemed to outweigh the cost.”

“And what about to  _ me? _ I could lose my career because of this. My career that I rebuilt after I lost my first one. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

“It matters to me a lot—”

“Then why didn’t you ever slow down long enough to listen to me? Is your cause the only one that matters? Do you think that because I’m a woman that the cost to my career doesn’t matter because, what, I can just go to LA and be a housewife?”

“No. What? I would never—”

“Because my career is  _ here _ . And there are real consequences to  _ my _ career  _ here _ . And Nayeon’s. And Jinyoung’s. And probably Annie’s, too. And you all felt like you had to do this, and again, I’m not saying I was trying to stop you. But now you’re living with these consequences and I’m living with them too, and we’re on the front page news and they’re calling me an opportunist and a liar and it really, really hurts.”

He knows. He  _ knows _ and he also can’t do anything about it, because everything has already been done. He leans back, trying to grasp at words. “And they shouldn’t be saying that. It makes me so angry—”

“Then apologize for the songs,” Lim says, her eyes gleaming. “Release  _ that _ statement.”

Jae freezes.

This is a test. A moment where they decide which way they’re heading. Jae imagines doing what she suggests, apologizing, getting everyone’s life back on track. Rectifying his own mistakes.

He visualizes it, himself with his lie of a haircut, saying to a camera  _ I apologize for the words I’ve said against President Won. _ Retracting all of it.

He looks at Lim. “I can’t do that.”

She nods, sucking in a deep breath and closing her eyes. “I know.”

For a moment they are quiet. She reaches for his hand, pressing their palms together in a movement that only makes him feel more horrible. This isn’t  _ normal _ . They should be curled up here on the couch, trading stories about their time apart, pausing in between to kiss and bask in the intimacy of being in the same space again. Instead they are weakly holding hands, their relationship pulled tight, like a thread about to snap.

“It’s not about my pride, I swear,” he says. “That’s really the message that I believe, and going through this is just making it so clear to me that I have to stand up for that—that doesn’t mean I want you to suffer for it, but—what am I supposed to  _ do _ , Lim?”

She looks at him with tears in her eyes. “Are you sure this wasn’t your way to prove that you’re more than just an idol?”

 

The words land and explode, splitting shrapnel into his skin.

“What is  _ that _ supposed to mean?” he manages to say.

She shakes her head, pulling her hand away so she can stand up and pace the floor. “At the end of the day, you got here as an idol, you’re marketed as an idol, and they’re going to destroy you as an idol.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but the sound dies in his throat. There’s nothing to argue. It’s a fight he can’t win.

He listens to her ticking clock on the wall and watches as she wanders to the kitchen. A few moments pass, and then he hears the tell-tale ragged sounds of her trying not to cry. He wants to go to her, but he’s pretty sure she’d push him away.

She returns to the living room. “I’m sorry, Jae. I can’t take care of myself and you at the same time.”

He looks up at her, his heart aching. “Are we breaking up?”

“I don’t know. I just need a few days to  _ think _ . Please.”

He agrees, because there’s nothing else he can do.

  
  
  


 

 

_ 004 soundtrack _

[lesson 5](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L8tU0uWVVn0) | [i need somebody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87a47NhL8VM) |  [thousand eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wylkSUS9Ofs) | [a change is gonna come](https://youtu.be/wEBlaMOmKV4) | [we fight ourselves](https://youtu.be/bYnY6XChzok)


	5. track 005 - the song of the immigrants’ son

####  track 005 - the song of the immigrants’ son

* * *

  
  


_ Monday, December 18, 2023 _

 

**_President Won Utilizes National Security Act in Large-Scale Media Censorship_ **

 

Seoul _ —President  _ _ Yoo-suk Won of South Korea enacted a media “crackdown” early Monday morning, blacklisting numerous Korean musicians, authors, and artists on Korean television, radio, streaming services, and popular internet search engines. The crackdown was announced in response to anti-war protests in the city, which have grown to demonstrations of several thousand people in the last few weeks. _

 

_ President Won came into office earlier this year, running his campaign with the promise to clean out the widespread corruption in South Korea’s business, government, and law enforcement sectors. Recent tensions with North Korea have put Won and his party on the defensive. Some South Korean citizens, however, oppose Won’s strategies and accuse him of not sufficiently de-escalating the tensions, thereby leading the peninsula closer to war than it has been in years. _

 

_ Artists blacklisted in the ban include Seungjin Moon, author of the popular novel  _ Daughter of the Sea _ , Eunkyung Lee, poet laureate, and the Kpop band Day6, formerly under JYP Entertainment.  _

 

_ Due to their international fame, Day6’s inclusion in the ban has drawn the attention of fans worldwide, as well as other artists in the Kpop industry, who have taken up the number 6 as a kind of protest. On Monday, many South Korean citizens also began incorporating the number 6 into their social media posts as an impossible-to-censor outcry against the President’s decision. Many others in South Korea, however, are supporting the ban. _

 

_ “This ban is intended for the good of our society,” President Won said in his statement. “We should be cautious of all influences that seek to destroy our unity as a nation.” _

  
  
  
  


 

**_Limmie Lim <3_ **

 

_ 03:52 23/12/19 Jae _

_ >I’ve thought a lot about what you said and I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry. You were right that I didn’t really give you a chance to change my mind and I listened without actually changing anything, and I realize that was unfair to you and I just want to own up to that. It was never a situation to where I was ignoring you but I honestly just never thought it would turn out the way it has, and although I was doing what was right in my own eyes I should have paid more attention to how I wasn’t the only one involved. The honest truth is (and I know we both hate to say it) (but i’m gonna say it) I love you and I want to rectify this situation but I don’t know how. I really don’t know how. _

 

**✓ Read 06:03**

  
  
  
  
  


 

A sudden cold snap gives Jae a convenient excuse to hole himself up in his apartment for days on end, starting from the morning after he leaves Lim’s apartment. He goes to meet Jimin and Bang Chan for coffee, only to get halfway there and realize he really, really just—can’t. He turns the car around and drives through the quiet city streets back to his home, pausing for a brief moment to stare up at the drained sky before he decides that some fights just aren’t worth fighting. He doesn’t have a lot of fight left in him anymore.

 

He mutes every conversation except the one with Lim—which doesn’t matter, because she’s not answering—and spends wasteful hours with his VPN logged into Los Angeles, like a little virtual tunnel out of this life and back into the one he left. Even so he finds himself watching videos of traditional Korean instruments, and he trawls back through the pages of YouTube, his heart caught somewhere on the strings being plucked in the sourceless black-and-white clips.

 

On Thursday he wakes in the middle of the afternoon to the sound of someone banging their fist against his front door while pushing his doorbell so that the jingle never stops sounding down the hallway. “I’m coming!” Jae yells in the direction of the door, glancing at his phone just long enough to see that nobody has called. He drags himself out of his room and shuffles down the hall, patting his palm against his wild hair to no avail.

 

He pulls open the door. He shouldn’t really be surprised to see Brian on the other side, but he is somehow, a quiet sense of shame ringing in his ears. “Oh hey,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Well,” Brian says, “You’re predictable.” And then he forces his way past Jae and into the apartment.

 

“Rude,” Jae calls at Brian’s back.

 

Brian turns back around. “Did you  _ mute us? _ ” he asks.

 

“No,” Jae says.

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Do you have no respect for my personal property?” Jae shoots back, closing the door behind him. “Did the ‘Keep Out: Guard Dog Is Home’ not mean anything do you?”

 

Brian points at the Pluto plushie Jae had bought at Disneyland a few years back, on a shelf in the entryway. “That’s your guard dog, Jae.”

 

“I have  _ allergies _ , okay? Seriously, what are you doing here?”

 

He knows he sounds like an asshole, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. He wants to go back to bed and drown his thoughts out with another season of  _ Arrested Development _ . He doesn’t want to face the real world. Brian never shies away from anything, and his presence is just a bodily reminder that Jae will always be just a little bit inferior, right down to how he handles the stress of his music getting banned by the national government.

 

“Well first off, you did lie to us,” Brian says in a careful, measured voice. “You said you were spending time with Lim—but then I ran into Jimin the other day, and she said you and Lim broke up.”

 

“We didn’t break up,” Jae says immediately.

 

“Jimin said—”

 

“Lim just needed space to process everything that’s happened.”

 

Brian’s eyebrows lift in a question, but he doesn’t say anything else. He turns, drifting a little in the apartment, his eyes scanning across the spotless kitchen countertop and over to the table where an empty instant ramen bowl—the last thing Jae ate—has been sitting untouched for the last couple of days.

 

“Dude, this isn’t healthy. You need to go outside.”

 

“Thanks. This is really shocking news to me.” Jae flops down onto his couch and stares up at the thin crack in his ceiling. Maybe, if he’s rude enough, Brian will just leave, and thereby leave him alone.

 

Brian stares him down, and then walks over and sinks down onto the couch next to him. “Fine,” he says.

 

Jae swivels to give him a look. “What are you doing?”

 

“Showing you something,” Brian returns, pulling out his phone and scrolling through it. 

 

He shoves his phone into Jae’s hands, the screen opened to a post oddly titled  _ Idols for The New Generation.  _ “What is that supposed to mean?” Jae asks, looking up at Brian.

 

“It has to get past the censors,” Brian says. “Just keep going.”

 

Jae obediently scrolls down to the pictures below. The first picture is the one Jinyoung posted on his Instagram, with the number 6 written in his palm. The picture below that is of the Twice subunit, Jeongyeon sporting the number 6 written on the inside of her middle finger.

 

“How did Nayeon feel about this?” Jae asks.

 

“Dunno,” Brian says. “Keep going.”

 

There’s more—over ten pictures of different artists who found a way to incorporate the number 6 into their wardrobe or social media posts. Some of them surprise him. Suzy, who he spoke to maybe once in the entire time their JYP Entertainment careers overlapped, posted an Instagram picture with her hand in the “hang ten” sign, and a caption below reading  _ Although it may seem controversial, it’s important for musicians to speak their minds and hearts.  _ Taeyeon wore a necklace with the number 6 at a performance, only for SM to deny it had any significance. He scrolls down farther to an Instagram video from Ha:tfelt, and when he hits play, Yeeun’s voice croons over the speaker. “ _ When the violence causes silence, we must be mistaken,”  _ she sings.

 

“This is…” Jae begins, looking up.

 

“Not what you expected?” Brian offers, with a slight smile.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Me neither,” Brian continues. “But I guess it means we accomplished what we set out to do.”

  
  
  
  


 

Jae eventually agrees to go outside and get some actual food. Bundled in an old parka, he steps out into the evening sun and turns his face up to the sky, taking a deep breath of crisp air to steady his pounding heart. This is probably the thing he hates most about himself: he can run headlong into trouble and then become paralyzed under the weight of his own inadequacy. His worries win for a while, but like an idiot, he always seems to try to do the impossible again, like a moth bumping against a burning light, thinking it can reach mothy Nirvana until it finally dies inside the glass dome.

 

They walk to the nearest restaurant and order takeout. On the way out the door, Brian stops suddenly, causing Jae to run into his back. It’s only after Jae has caught his balance that he sees what caused Brian to stop dead in his tracks.

 

Junhyeok stands just inside the doorway, staring at them.

 

Jae quickly adds up how long it’s been since they must have spoken with Junhyeok.  _ Years. _ The last time must have been a year after Junhyeok left the band, when Jae sent him an awkward  _ Happy Birthday _ message and Junhyeok replied  _ thanks man _ and that was the end of it. Jae’s gotten used to measuring his comments in interviews, careful to pretend like Junhyeok never existed at all. And yet here he is, as if to remind Jae just how odd it is that 6 is the number of the resistance.

 

They all stand in shock. The girl behind Junhyeok looks between them, trying to figure out the situation.

 

Then Junhyeok smiles and raises a hand in a slight wave. “Solid album,” he says, and then pushes past them into the restaurant.

 

Once they’re out on the street, Jae and Brian look at each other. And then they start laughing.

 

“Oh my god,” Brian laughs. “That was so awkward.”

 

When Jae finally stops laughing, he sobers enough to consider what just happened. “You know,” he says. “I bet he feels like he dodged a bullet right now.”

 

“But if even Junhyeok respects the album,” Brian says, one eyebrow lifting, “Isn’t that a good reason to keep going?”

 

“If we even can,” Jae says in return.

 

They walk in silence for a few minutes. One or two people give them curious looks, but no one says anything to them, leaving Jae with his thoughts.

 

“Dude,” he says, breaking the quiet, “I thought that you’d be pissed about this. You were the one who thought it was so dangerous, out of all of us.”

 

Brian nods, burying his fists in his jacket and stopping to look back at Jae. “That was because I knew we were going to battle. You don’t write what we wrote without expecting people to listen to it.” He sighs a little, shrugging his shoulders. “I didn’t really expect all the xenophobic comments about my girlfriend, but I knew it was going to be ugly.”

 

“Yeah,” Jae says, “I really didn’t expect any of this.”

 

He thinks back to weeks ago, standing on the street outside the restaurant under the neon lights with fragments of a melody dancing across his mind. Hope had swelled in his chest as he thought about the music they could make. And now, he isn’t totally confident he’d get out of the country if he tried to leave.

 

“I guess that’s where military training actually is useful,” Brian says, looking at Jae with a seriousness that doesn’t quite feel right. “You’re trained to expect attacks to come in the moments when you think you’re safe.”

  
  
  
  


 

_ Friday, December 22, 2023 _

 

**_Day6 Jae Evaded Military Duty?_ **

 

_ Park Jaehyung of Day6, formerly under JYP Entertainment, failed to complete military duty alongside his band members. During the two years his band members were enlisted, Park instead worked in Seoul and Los Angeles. _

 

_ Although Park holds citizenship in the USA, our exclusive sources have revealed that he maintained dual citizenship until he turned seventeen, when he gave up his Korean citizenship. However, he has continued to work in Korea on an F-4 visa. _

 

_ Day6 was recently included in a media ban instated by President Won due to the threatening and subversive nature of their new songs. In a statement released to fans prior to the ban, Day6 claimed they were being unfairly treated by the media. However, now fans are questioning whether Park—holding foreign citizenship and failing to participate in a most basic pillar of Korean society—should be criticizing the country where he is legally a guest. _

  
  


  1. _[+4233, -568]  Disgusting. He shaved his head like he did military duty but he didn’t actually go. Just a sick attempt to gain sympathy so we will listen to his anti-Won propaganda_



 

  1. _[+2110, -782]  Send him to military duty and see if he can stand it._



 

  1. _[+1765, -1271]  This is the 6th article about how terrible Day6 are… 6 is more than enough to show what sort of band it is! I wish they could be banned 6 times_ _ㅋㅋㅋ_



 

  1. _[+1233, -1122]  Yes the songs are anti-Won… Yes they are a problem. But this situation is a bit different… He must have given his Korean citizenship up before 18. I can’t imagine him going to get it back just to complete military duty._



 

  1. _[+994, -79] You had Taecyeon in your own company, why couldn’t you follow his example?_



 

  1. _[+953, -584] Send him to the army for 6 days… Although he surely can’t do 6 push-ups, I’m sure he could gain some education there_



 

  1. _[+886, -444] Where will he be in 6 years? Not famous anymore I’m sure…_



  
  
  
  


 

After the article goes up, even Brian doesn’t try to persuade Jae back out of his apartment.

 

Jae spends the morning lying on his bed, looking at the ice frosted over his windows and trying to put order to the chaos of his thoughts. His head spins as though he’s on a ship, tossed back and forth by tumultuous waves, but the reality is, his life is capsizing right here on solid ground.

 

He resists for an hour, and then he picks up his phone, and starts reading.

 

His stomach twists into knots as he reads one article and the accompanying comments, then another one, and another and another and—they go on and on, the media ban on Day6 clearly not applying to this situation, which will more thoroughly blacklist them than a government edict ever could. Whatever goodwill they gained with the public when Wonpil and Jinyoung were outed has now been obliterated by a simple statement of the facts: Jae did not do military duty. He is ethnically Korean, technically American; he has worked in Korea for his entire adult life; he has criticized the current president on an international platform. And he did not do military duty.

 

He runs a palm over his hair, now soft and scraggly after a few weeks’ growth. He shouldn’t have buzzed it. If he hadn’t, at least the photos of himself accompanying these articles wouldn’t look so much like a petty grasp for sympathy.

 

The comments get worse as the story gains traction. By noon, Park Jaehyung is one of the most reviled men in South Korea.

 

With his stomach pains getting worse— _ psychosomatic response _ , Lim would say, but she’s not  _ here _ —he finally throws his phone down onto his bed and pushes himself up onto his feet. He wobbles, his head spinning violently, but he doesn’t fall over and he doesn’t throw up. So that’s something, at least.

 

He goes out into his living room and finds his guitar. The warbling sound of the gayageum from the videos still echoes in his head, but as he doesn’t have one, he can only imitate the tune on his guitar. He plucks out notes in a fast pace, humming to himself, a sound welling up out of somewhere inside himself he hasn’t peered into for a long time. Somewhere buried deeply, locked away, never to be acknowledged again.

 

But it’s coming up in his throat, dark and burning, a question that scratches and sparks. When he was too young to know what it meant a kid called him a name he can’t remember now because he forced himself to forget—when he was twelve his grandfather died and his whole family took a plane back to Korea and his mother cried when they landed and he spent the whole trip playing his Game Boy so his cousins wouldn’t make fun of his Korean—when he was eighteen he started university and he asked out a girl who said  _ sorry, I don’t find Asians attractive _ and he didn’t know what to say—when he was twenty he sat under the hot stage lights on  _ Kpop Star _ and forced himself not to cry when the director yelled at him for failing to understand the stage directions—when he was twenty-two his dad asked him  _ is this really a career path if they’ll never fully accept you _ —when he was twenty-three he stood in front of a crowd on a hot summer night and listened to his voice reverberating through the speakers like he was finally singing in a language somebody could understand—

 

And now he is screaming, screaming out that locked-up cry buried in his chest, begging a question no one can answer, screaming until he screams himself hoarse.

  
  
  
  
  


On Saturday, he looks at his phone again. He avoids all the news sites, but the first video on YouTube is a clip of Bang Chan at a press conference, and he opens it.

 

_ “After your new album, some of your members will be thinking about military duty,” _ the interviewer asks.  _ “How will Stray Kids continue to promote during that time?” _

 

Jae sucks in a deep breath and holds it.

 

_ “We’ve heard that the enlistment time will probably be longer for us,” _ Bang Chan says,  _ “And we fully respect the duty we will serve to our country. In our company, we want to emulate the example set by our Taecyeon-hyung, who gave up his green card in order to serve to the best of his ability. Although I’m Australian, I am planning to serve as well. I think it’s very important for all of us Koreans who live and work in Korea to serve the greater good of the nation, regardless of what passport we hold.” _

 

Now Jae understands why the clip has so many views. The horrible feeling that comes after getting thrown under the metaphorical bus of popular opinion by someone he considered a friend keeps Jae in bed for the better part of the morning.

 

He isn’t sure why he finally gets up, puts on real clothes, and walks out the front door. It’s like something is calling to him, giving him some frustrating itch to go and see the ruins of his life for himself. Outside, the sun glitters on a fresh blanket of snow, and he shouldn’t be surprised that the world looks so beautiful and pristine, but he is.

 

He starts walking. He walks for ages, following the map of Seoul in his head without any real plan but a vague direction. He skips the subway and sticks to the city streets, thankful he thought to obscure his face with a hoodie and a medical mask. He walks and walks until his legs ache and his lungs burn and he’s found himself in Gangnam, staring up at the words JYP ENTERTAINMENT.

 

It looks exactly the same as it did when he vacated the place—was it only two weeks ago? It feels like a lifetime has already passed.

 

The streets surrounding the building are mostly empty. Fans must not expect to see their favorite artists on a snowy Saturday afternoon. Jae looks to his right and his left, searching for his next destination, but in the end he squints back up at the building again like if he stares at it long enough, the words will transform into some kind of secret code explaining the rest of his life, or something.

 

He just never, never expected that these people would hurt him like this.

 

“Jae?”

 

He turns and finds Nayeon, of all people, standing behind him. Her brow furrows as she squints at the parts of his face she can see. He reaches up and pulls off the mask.

 

“Hey—” he says, awkward. “I was just—walking.” The explanation sounds lame to his own ears, even if it’s the truth.

 

"Me too," Nayeon says.

 

She steps up beside him and looks at the JYP building, and then she looks over at Jae again, her face unreadable.

 

“You know he had to say it.” She scrunches up her nose in what might be pity, but he isn’t sure. “Don’t you?”

 

After a moment, he realizes she’s talking about Bang Chan. He laughs lightly.

 

“He didn’t have to say it like that.”

 

They fall silent. Jae can count on one hand the number of one-on-one conversations he and Nayeon have had in the last ten years—he likes her fine, but they never had much reason to single one another out. He wonders what she’s doing here, standing beside him on a slushy sidewalk, when he’d have expected her to avoid him completely.

 

“Do you remember,” she says suddenly, looking up at him again, “When we were trainees and you used to piss off the media training guy?”

 

Jae laughs, picturing the classroom in the old building where they’d gathered for far too many boring Powerpoints and oddly scathing critiques of everything from their posture to their diction. “He was really mean.”

 

In media training, Jae used to complain, endlessly.  _ This isn’t genuine _ , he remembers saying.  _ Just let me be myself _ .

 

And the media training guy—Jae can’t even remember his name—told him,  _ Genuine doesn’t look good on camera. Genuine looks boring, or off-putting. Genuine is showing everyone you’re an asshole. Genuine is showing the person you really are to the whole world. Instead, show them what you want them to see. _

 

Maybe the media training guy had a point, after all.

 

“I just remember those scripts they’d give us,” Nayeon says. “The ones about like, going to the amusement park with your members and whatever. And do you remember how they’d say,  _ make me believe it _ .”

 

Jae laughs. “I always failed.”

 

“I always passed.” Nayeon gives him a sad smile, chewing a little at her lip. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still just reciting one of those scripts.”

 

They stand there for a moment, neither of them saying anything, the cold air turning Nayeon’s cheeks pink and causing Jae to shiver. He knows this is supposed to be a message for Sungjin, but it’s something more, too.

 

She reaches out and puts a hand on his arm. “Good luck, oppa,” she says, with a camera-ready smile. When it falls, she looks—genuine. And then she turns and walks away, leaving Jae to stare up at the JYP ENTERTAINMENT sign again for a long moment before he, too, turns and begins to make his way home.

  
  
  
  


 

By Sunday, a faction of Day6’s fans have started circulating a petition demanding Jae be ousted from the band. When Jae checks Twitter, most of his fansites that stuck around through the contract termination have finally gone dark. Nevermind that the information isn’t actually new, and anyone who cared to find out what Jae was doing for the last two years could have just checked his Wikipedia page—Jae’s “draft evasion” is still the most-read topic on several news sites. 

 

If he thinks about it, he’ll go crazy, so he tries not to think about it. He pushes it out of his mind and whiles away the hours by working on the new song that keeps itching under his fingers, begging to be played.

 

In the evening, his doorbell rings. Jae expects Brian again, but the whole band is standing in the hallway, bundled in their winter coats. They don’t smile when he invites them in.

 

They take up the same seats they used to in the dorm—Jae and Wonpil on the couch, Dowoon in the recliner, and Sungjin and Brian on the floor. But the way Sungjin sits, cross-legged with his hands folded in front of him, tells Jae that this isn’t any regular band meeting. Time thickens and slows, so that the loudest sound in the room is Jae’s heart beating in his ears.

 

“So,” Sungjin says quietly, not quite meeting Jae’s eyes. “This is really bad.”

 

No one says anything. Jae couldn’t even find his voice if he had something to say, but his mind is blank anyway, a dull sense of foreboding settling on his shoulders.

 

Finally Sungjin meets his eyes. “I’ve been going over everything in my mind, trying to figure this out, but—I don’t think we can come back from this.”

 

Jae nods, feeling very numb, like he’s floating above them and watching this unfold. 

 

“So you’re kicking me out.”

 

Everyone in the room seems to be holding their breath.

 

It’s a good decision, Jae thinks. The only option they have right now. He can’t blame them, really—and anyway, this was all his idea. His suggestion which ruined the band. He’d kick himself out, if he was in their shoes.

 

Sungjin shakes his head. “We’ve discussed it, and we’re going to disband.”

 

Jae’s heartbeat skips, pausing for a second too long and breaking up the steady rhythm in his ears. He looks at each of his bandmates, imagining the conversations they must have been having over the last twenty-four hours, to come to this conclusion.

 

This is a sacrifice they’re making for  _ him. _

 

“You don’t—” Jae begins.

 

“We already decided,” Wonpil cuts in. The tone of his voice tells Jae not to argue. And when Wonpil reaches over to put his hand on Jae’s shoulder, for once in his life, Jae doesn’t swat him away.

 

“We’ll wait until after New Year’s,” Sungjin says in a hoarse voice. “We should at least finish out the year together.”

 

“Okay,” Jae says. He doesn’t know what else to do except agree.

 

They sit more or less in silence for a while, under the weight of the nightmare that has been December of 2023.

  
  
  
  
  


The next day is Christmas.

 

Functioning on autopilot, Jae gets out of bed. He calls his mom while he gets ready, explaining the band’s decision in a dull voice that doesn’t sound quite like his own. She asks if he’s getting sick.

 

“Maybe,” he says. “I don’t know.” Nor does he particularly care, but it doesn’t really matter.

 

He goes to church because—it’s Christmas, and it’s a habit. There’s a service even though it’s a work day, and so he drives to Gangnam like he’s hoping to find one fragment of his life still clicking forward normally.

 

The English service is held in the basement of an office building. It’s more crowded than he expected, Christmas carols spilling out of the main room and into the reception area where people stand shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing and trading stories. Kids dodge between the adults’ legs, some of them dressed up for the occasion. Jae pushes his way through the crowd and into the main room, where he takes his usual seat among the rows of folding chairs.

 

After he sits down, he realizes that Lim is sitting several rows in front of him, next to one of their mutual friends. Her back is to him, her hair gathered in some sort of bun that looks pretty, the kind he knows she’d spend ten minutes trying to get all the pins out of before finally asking him to see if he could find any more. 

 

She doesn’t turn around.

 

He can’t focus. He stands up when everyone else stands. He mouths along to the words of the songs, but doesn’t really ever hear what it is they’re singing. Even if he wanted to focus, his eyes keep getting pulled back to Lim, and he wonders if she knows he’s here. If she did, would she turn around to look?

 

Before they finish singing, Lim squeezes her way out of her row and into the aisle. As she walks to the back, her eyes meet Jae’s for the briefest of moments. Jae waits just long enough to catch his breath before he follows.

 

He finds her in a back hallway, leaning against an industrial-white wall with her arms wrapped around herself.

 

“Hey,” he says softly, coming to stand beside her.

 

Her eyes flick up to his. “Hey,” she says, before looking away again.

 

She doesn’t move or say anything, so he leans against the wall, too. His hands feel numb and his stomach is twisted in knots, but below that is an odd feeling of calm, like a wide gray sea.

 

“Jae—” she begins, and then falters, chewing at her lip as she turns to him.

 

“You want to break up.”

 

She looks at him like she wants to say a thousand things, but every word is trapped behind some invisible wall. He wants to ask her about her job, if she’s been okay, what she thinks of the national mob demanding he be punished for his crimes. But it’s far too much to say in this quiet, painful moment. He mentally traces the path of this relationship over the years, looking for the moment when they made a wrong turn—because the music exposed a weak point, and the battering that came after the music broke them, but those weren’t the things that made the weak point in the first place. He’s beginning to accept that they are unable to resolve their differences of opinion. And it hurts like hell.

 

He wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her forward into a hug. They stand there for what seems like a long time, neither crying nor speaking, and he tries to imprint the moment into his memory. Finally she steps away, leaving him feeling cold.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says. He watches a tear well and spill down her cheek. She brushes it away and then turns to reach into her purse, pulling out a lanyard with a plastic sleeve attached. “Here,” she says, pushing it towards him.

 

Jae takes it and stares at the badge in his hands, uncomprehending. “What—”

 

“The President is speaking at City Hall on Wednesday,” she says. “That’s my media pass.”

 

He still can’t comprehend it, his mind whirring as he tries to grasp why she would have given this to him.

 

“I’m not going,” she continues. “It’s going to be really big, though. There’s rumors that he’s making some kind of announcement, and—well, anyway. They’ll be checking IDs, but I snuck your name on the list, so just say you’re with the  _ World Report _ team and try to look like you know where you’re going.”

 

“And—” Jae blanks, just staring at her. “Why, though?”

 

She shrugs. “I think—maybe if you go there, and you stand in the crowd and you hear the president speak, you’ll understand why—why it’s not so easy for me to just speak out, the way you have.”

 

He looks at her as she bites her lip, and nods. He can understand that, even if he’s not sure he’ll come to the conclusions she wants. But she’s right—he’s never stood in the center of a crowd hanging onto every word out of the president’s mouth. And he’s never seen the president in person, either. He’d sure like the chance to look the man in the eyes.

  
  
“So you think this is some kind of chance?” Jae asks. “Like I’ve got to go see the president in order to move forward?”

  
  
“I don’t know. But I think you should go and see.”

 

“Lim—” he says, looking at the badge again. “Why are you doing this?”

 

She’s also looking at the badge in his hands. And then she looks up, the slightest of smiles curving her lips. “You know we both hate to say it,” she says softly, and then she leaves, her heels clicking down the hall as she rushes away, leaving him with nothing but the smallest of plans.

  
  
  
  
  


He nearly rear-ends two people on the drive home before he finally pulls down a quiet neighborhood street, parks his car, and rests his head against the steering wheel. Music continues to pour softly out of his speakers, but it feels distant and unintelligible. He looks at his hands, the calluses on his fingers, the holes in the knees of his jeans.

 

What are his band members doing now? Brian and Wonpil will probably take Christmas as a romantic respite from the absolute shitstorm that has been the rest of December. Sungjin—probably at the gym, boxing. Dowoon—who knows. Regardless, the last thing Jae could ask of them is to give up more than they already have, to come comfort him in the miserable state he created for himself.

 

Lim was right all along. He spoke what he believed, and he’s lost everything: his career, his band, his girlfriend, and probably his home.

 

He’s angry. But the strangest thing about it is that he’s not really angry at the people who abandoned him. What he feels when he thinks about them is more like a dull, stabbing pain of loss. The foundation he built his adult life on has eroded away in the face of this storm, and no one—not his company, his girlfriend, or even his band—could withstand that battering. But how can he blame them, really? It’s like Nayeon said: he’s gone completely off-script.

 

He inhales a deep breath and leans back, resting his head against the seat and staring at the roof while his eyes burn. The song that’s playing catches his attention, quietly snapping into his consciousness.  _ I’ve got a message that you can’t ignore. Maybe I’m just not the man I was before. _

 

He sings along as the song continues. Lim’s plan is—probably pointless, potentially crazy. What if someone recognizes him? How would he explain that his purpose for going to hear President Won speak is just that his girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—thought it was a good idea? And yet, now that he has the media pass, he does want to go. He wants to see for himself his opponent, if only to confirm to himself how unfairly matched this fight has been.

 

But first, he’ll have to leave some kind of record of his thoughts. He may well get photographed at this event, and he’s not about to let the media put words into his mouth. And with that, an idea begins to form in the back of his mind, growing more and more solid as he drives back home.

  
  
  
  


 

“Hi, this is Jae,” he says into the camera, squinting a little under the light he set up behind his  _ JaeSix _ video equipment. “I, um.”

 

He stops and reaches for his script, which he’d written with his usual scrawling penmanship, an English and Korean version. It swims in front of his eyes. He takes a deep breath.

 

“Hi, this is Jae,” he says again. “I’m sure you’ve seen me in the news recently. I just wanted to come before you here and give you a chance to hear my perspective, from my own mouth. And I know I can’t change everyone’s mind, but I’m hoping you’ll listen.”

 

He hesitates for a second, looking at his tiny reflection in the camera lens. He’s being too genuine, he knows, and his extensive media training and years of experience tells him to tread carefully. But he doesn’t know what else to do at this point  _ except _ be genuine.

 

“Yes, I didn’t do military duty. Although I am Korean, when I first moved here I actually felt like I was a foreigner. And I acted very much like a foreigner. I didn’t do things right. As you can tell, I still don’t do things right. I can own up to that.”

 

In the past, he used to wish for more empathy. He wished people—even and maybe especially his bandmates—would take a moment to put themselves in his shoes and imagine how hard it would be to move to a place where you always felt a little bit like you were missing the mark. But they didn’t get it. They had no way to  _ get  _ that Jae has felt that way his entire life.

 

“When my band members were getting ready to do military duty, I actually considered whether or not I should try to find a way to join them, as well. But the legal hoops I’d have to jump through were really complicated. I didn’t even know where to start, so I decided not to. I didn’t feel like I was betraying anyone. My life is like this patchwork of different places and languages and people, and sometimes I think that makes me very different from other people in a way they don’t like. 

 

“But I think that can be helpful, too. Because I see things differently, maybe I can introduce some good ideas, too. It turns out that I’m a pacifist, I guess. And I just wanted people to understand that I’m horrified by the idea of a war, because the cost is so high. We shouldn’t go into battles without considering the cost on all sides.”

 

He thinks about the past weeks. He and his band waged a war without really knowing how it was going to bring them to this point: basically in ruins. It’s an odd little metaphor, the thing they were fighting against reproduced on a smaller scale.

 

He clears his throat. “I thought maybe I could say some things better in a song. So here goes.”

 

After all these years, he still feels nervous as he begins to play. Over the melody he worked out several days before, he begins to sing, a fumbling attempt to put what he feels into words. 

 

“ _ I’ve got a cotton bullet in my gun,  _

_ never knew how to aim anyway.  _

_ My warrior call never went far,  _

_ always hit the ground running a second too late.” _

 

His voice cracks when he reaches the refrain, but he doesn’t stop. He powers through each word, pushed along by the weight of everything that has happened in these past few weeks. He pictures himself out on a battlefield, running scared, struggling to stand up and stare down the face of his enemy. Which, if he thinks about it, is just a whole bunch of individual people with their own stories, right on up to the president himself.

 

Jae pictures himself trying to persuade just one person. Just one person who might hear this, and see him differently.

 

“ _ I’m a nobody in a body that never fit right.  _

_ We’re all somebody in bodies fighting God’s fight.  _

_ So put down your weapons and take a look in your neighbor’s eyes.  _

_ Yeah, this is my battle cry. _ ”

 

He finishes with a last strum of his guitar and silence floods into the gap. Then he stares into the camera, wondering if anyone will hear this, and understand.

 

He turns the camera off. Maybe he’s an idiot, but what else does he have to lose?

 

It only takes a few minutes to do some basic editing, and then he logs into his long-untouched  _ yellowpostitman _ account. He doubts anyone thought to censor that username, and better this one than something his manager used to have access to.

 

He uploads the video, and then goes to sleep.   
  


  
  
  
  


Any sane person would tell Jae not to go hear President Won’s speech. He knows this, and even tells himself this information as he gets into his car that gray Wednesday morning, dressed in a simple coat. He’d pushed on a pair of glasses frames just before walking out the door because of some kind of intuition that told him he’d be better off trying to Clark Kent it up in this situation than walk in looking like anything close to a Kpop Star.

 

Instead of snow and sunshine, a dreary fog covers the city, obscuring the street as Jae drives. He bobs his head in time with the music from the playlist he’d made for the occasion, his mind strangely clear of thoughts. He has nothing to accomplish except to see the president for himself, so he feels neither worried nor excited. He just drives, trying to rap along with Tablo and mostly failing, except for the English parts. 

 

_ “Sometimes to get to God,” _ he says aloud,  _ “first you gotta meet the devil.” _

 

He parks a few blocks away from City Hall and walks the rest of the way, his head bowed against the chill breeze whipping up leaves on the street. Clumps of people stand along the sidewalk, and as he gets closer, the roads grow more crowded, until he reaches the plaza and slows. The whole perimeter is guarded by a security team dressed in dark clothes and sunglasses, like something out of a movie, except that anyone can tell they are completely serious as they scan the crowd for any potential threat. Jae pulls out the badge Lim gave him and presses forward, trying not to attract any attention. He should have prepared—but he really didn’t expect this level of security, which he fully acknowledges was just stupidity, but it’s also not the first time in his life he’s done something stupid. 

 

He keeps the security team in his peripheral vision as he weaves through the crowd. Some people are holding signs, most of them pro-Won. Other people chatter happily, like they’ve shown up for a day at the park or a Kpop concert, instead of a somewhat-impromptu public speech from the president.

 

He finds the media line and stands behind two laughing guys with large cameras on their shoulders. Half-listening to the two of them talking about baseball, Jae scrolls through his phone, trying to imagine what a real journalist would do in this situation. Before he even has time to imagine a cover story, the line surges forward and he’s standing in front of a woman about his age, who is staring at a laptop on the folding table in front of her, looking bored out of her mind.

 

She glances up at him and he holds up the media pass.

 

“Name?” she asks.

 

“Uh, Park Jaehyung. With  _ World Report. _ ”

 

"ID."

 

He hands over his resident card to her. She doesn't even look up as she takes it. Sweat breaks at his hairline and trickles down his temple and along the side of his cheek. She’s definitely going to question his name, put two-and-two together, and ask what a government-banned musician is doing here, pretending to be part of a television programming staff. The burly security guards are going to come hold him in one of those tents for a few hours before he finally gets whisked off to jail, where he languishes for a decade, remembered only by a few international relations professors who keep tabs on human rights abuses the way your average human keeps tabs on soccer: with great interest, but no power to affect who wins.

 

The woman holds out his badge and ID. “Thank you,” she says as he takes them, sounding anything but cheerful. “Next!”

 

And then Jae is whisked through the tent and out into the crowd.

 

He stumbles onto the grass and rights himself. He looks around, blinking and trying to process the overwhelming environment in front of him. A crowd of people spreads out across the browned grass of the plaza. The view directly in front of him is obscured by large cameras and sound equipment, and at first he wonders what kind of shot they’ll be able to get from this vantage point, until he moves forward and sees the full set-up of the stage.

 

The media has been sectioned off into one quarter of the plaza, but the rest is open to the public. People stand shoulder-to-shoulder, holding their phones up into the air to capture a quick, blurry shot of the stage which has been erected at the end of the grassy courtyard—probably the same stage used for Kpop concerts, Jae thinks. Ironic. Huge monitors hover behind the stage, the latest technology rendering them crystal-clear. A camera is fixed on the empty podium. The whole plaza thrums with energy, like a low bass note. Jae can’t tell what kind of song it’s setting up, though. He pushes his way forward to the front of the media area, standing right on the edge where he has a clear view, but at an odd angle that the others with cameras don’t want, so he can watch without being jostled.

 

A hush comes over the crowd as the stage begins to fill with different people. Jae recognizes the mayor and a few others, but like everyone else in the plaza, he’s holding his breath for the moment when President Won steps on stage.

 

Music begins to play over the loudspeaker, an invisible cue to tick the crowd’s anticipation up a few more notches. But a few notes in, Jae realizes—it’s _their_ song, “Marathon”—an instrumental version, but it’s their  _ fucking song _ , blasted shamelessly across the plaza like they weren’t just blacklisted across the whole country.

 

Then the president steps on stage, flashing a bright smile at the cameras. The crowd roars. Jae is shaking, his hands fisted in his coat as he listens to the notes he  _ wrote _ blare from the speakers.

 

The president holds up a hand, and the crowd settles and grows quiet. The song slowly fades, the cameras closing in on a clear shot of the president, his wide smile fading into the pensive expression copied onto stickers and postcards circulated around the nation.

 

“Good afternoon,” he says, his voice booming across the crowd.

 

Jae turns to surreptitiously look at the faces of those surrounding him. Almost everyone stands at attention, leaning in to hear the president’s next words.

 

“I’d like to thank you for joining me here today,” the president continues. “I am grateful for the opportunity to speak directly to the people I serve as president. You elected me into this role, and now I only seek to serve the best interests of our nation.”

 

Jae licks his lips, shifting on his feet in the cold. His cell phone buzzes in his pocket, but he doesn’t dare look to see who it is. The president is about to say something that Jae needs to hear. He can feel it, somewhere deep in his body, an intuition running through his blood.

 

“As you know,” the president says, looking into the crowd with an obviously practiced gaze of love, “I have utilized our National Security Act to counteract the recent threats against our nation.”

 

“Liar,” Jae whispers under his breath. Imagine considering writers and musicians a greater threat than a potential war? Jae can’t imagine that even the most wildfire movement could truly crack the foundations of the nation the way the president seems to fear. Jae’s nails dig into his palm.

 

“My greatest priority,” the president continues, “is to keep our nation unified. We have a common people, a common language, and a common goal. Those who do not believe in what we stand for present their ideas as an alternative truth, but like a virus it can spread, infecting many individuals, until finally we find that the whole nation is sick. Many countries have suffered because they cannot stop the spread of insidious, but appealing, information and opinions. I owe more to you than to stand by and watch this happen. Therefore, I have amended the National Security Act to enable us to more directly target the most disruptive and problematic individuals who seek to sabotage our national discourse.”

 

Jae sneaks a glance to his right again, half-hoping to see horrified jaw-drops and angry glares. But everyone stands silent, waiting to hear what comes next.

 

“However,” the president says.

 

Jae’s stomach drops. His head whips back to look at the screens again.

 

The president stares into the camera. “Even limiting their exposure to the general Korean populace cannot sufficiently target the threat these individuals pose to our country. Because their messages, however sincere they may feel them to be, ultimately confuse and mislead others, they should be dealt with in proportion to the crime.

 

“I have therefore proposed an additional act, which would allow us to sufficiently prosecute dissidents for their crimes against the nation. In this new technological age, we must fit the punishment to the crime. Whatever they may claim, the pattern we see again and again is that dissident thought creates violence and chaos. People go online and seek out crazy ideas, which then inspire them to equally crazy actions. Any act of dissident thought should be considered an act of violence, in no small part because of how the protests we have seen recently have devolved into meaningless fights among street gangs. These are not the student protests that helped us transform our nation for good. These are the small thinkers who would prefer we weaken our country just to give more room for the anarchy and chaos they crave. We must be vigilant against this threat, to whatever extent that vigilance requires.”

 

Jae can’t breathe.

 

He sucks in shallow breaths, dimly aware of the president’s speech transitioning to commentary on the possibility of war. All he can think about is that the president just suggested throwing his opponents in jail—people like Jae. He wants to punish them for their  _ thinking _ , for the exchange of differing ideas, with  _ prison _ —now, in 2023. 

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Jae blinks at the person next to him, eyes unable to focus. “I’m fine,” he stammers out.

 

The president’s speech finishes, but Jae can’t hear it. Another instrumental begins to play, washing over the nervous energy of the crowd. He keeps hearing one line of the speech again in his head.  _ Any act of dissident thought should be considered an act of violence. _ As though a protest album alone could overthrow governments.

 

He watches as the president, flanked by bodyguards, walks down the stairs from the stage and approaches the edge of the crowd. The screens show him shaking the hands of people in the crowd, who press forward eagerly, like adoring fans.

 

Busy staring at the screens, Jae almost doesn’t notice that the president has approached the edge of the media pen until he’s just a short distance away. Jae rips his eyes away from the screen, craning over the heads of others to get a look at the real man. He’s shorter than Jae thought, his eyes crinkled with smile lines. He takes a few seconds with each person, staring them in the eye.

 

By the time Jae realizes that  _ he’s _ standing on the perimeter of the crowd, the president is only a few people away from him, and Jae's got people pressing against him on all sides. He can’t move an inch.

 

He watches as the president shakes hands with the man three away. The bodyguards will surely recognize Jae first, and drag him away before the president can shake his hand.

 

Two away. Or the president shakes his hand, his eyes going wide, and he pulls him out of the crowd as his first arrest.

 

One away. Maybe Jae should pull out his phone, and quickly text his goodbyes. Maybe he should bolt now, his last—

 

The president stands in front of him. He holds out his hand. “Thank you for your support,” he says, with an easy, warm smile.

 

In a daze, Jae feels his own arm lift from his body. His hand moves of its own accord and grasps the president’s. A firm shake. The president smiles, without the slightest sign of recognition crossing his face. And then he moves on to the next person.

 

Jae can’t move. His hand floats down to the side of his body again.

 

He watches as the president continues down the line, shaking one hand after another. Cameras go off from all angles, flashing in Jae’s eyes as he turns in time with the president’s movement. He just met the enemy and—nothing happened. There’s poetry somewhere in that, but Jae isn’t sure what it means.

 

He pushes his glasses back up on his nose, and, in the movement, notices a dark shape in his peripheral vision. He turns his head just enough to get a glimpse of one of the security guards, now only feet away. By some magnetic accident, Jae looks directly into the other man’s eyes. His eyes narrow ever so slightly.

 

“Can I see your ID?” he asks, holding out a hand.

 

Jae’s heart pounds hard in his chest. The crowd is still pressing against his back, a sea of people rolling over one another for a picture of the president. Down the line, the president is posing with someone, smiling with his fingers in a V. The security guard stands in front of Jae, impassable, his palm outstretched and waiting.

 

Jae pulls the lanyard over his head and places the badge in the security guard’s hand, trying not to let his hands shake as he does it. 

 

The security guard frowns at the badge in his hand, glancing up at Jae and back down at the name two or three times. The background music hums somewhere in the background, low under the tide of cheering. Jae inhales shallow breaths as an eternity passes.

 

The security guard looks up again. “Come here, please,” he says, holding up a hand and gesturing for Jae to step across the barrier and over to his side of the grass.

 

Jae can’t move. His thoughts click forward slowly, incoherent, and he feels his leg begin to move as if an independent entity from the rest of his body. Then a hand grasps his arm, too tight.

 

“He has a badge,” says someone to Jae’s left. “What’s the problem?”

 

The security guard’s eyes slide over to the other man. “Standard procedure,” he says in a flat voice. “Don’t get in the way.”

 

“He’s not causing any trouble—”

 

Jae takes a step backward. Again, he moves automatically, with the vague idea that he might be able to melt back into the crowd.

 

The security guard’s hand shoots out in a flash, grabbing Jae’s arm more tightly than the other man had. Jae stumbles forward, banging both his knees hard against the barrier. He’s caught between the two men, like some sort of tug-o-war, or maybe a sad little Gumby doll. His knees smart with pain.

 

“Are you his associate?” the security guard asks.

 

“What? No—”

 

“Then unless you plan to join him, don’t obstruct us.” He pulls hard on Jae’s arm, forcing Jae to leap awkwardly over the barricade so he doesn’t hit his knees again. “Come with me,” the security guard says, without loosening his grip on Jae’s arm.

 

As he stumbles forward, Jae sneaks a glance over his shoulder. The man who stood up for him is standing on the other side of the barricade, his camera pointed toward Jae. And down the line, the president is still posing for pictures, unaware of the renegade pop star being dragged across the grass.

 

The security guard pulls Jae into the tents where he’d lined up and shown his ID earlier, but in another section, where more of the security team is gathered. Some are watching monitors depicting every inch of the plaza, while others are sitting on folding chairs, eating instant noodles and watching Jae with disinterested gazes.

 

“I need to see your ID,” the first security guard says. It’s only by comparison to the others in the tent that Jae realizes this guy is of a higher rank, with the cold demeanor to go with it. Jae pulls his resident ID out of his wallet and hands it over. The first security guard hands it off to another one and whispers something. Jae wonders what would happen if he tried to bolt—a Jason Bourne-style chase? He’d be toast in seconds.

 

“What are you doing here?” the first security guard asks, drawing Jae back to reality.

 

“I came to hear the president—”

 

“Do you work for _World Report_?”

 

“Not—technically—”

 

“Then why didn’t you enter with the general public?”

 

Jae swallows hard. “I didn’t mean anything by it—”

 

“Who gave you that badge?”

 

Jae has to think quickly, but his brain is moving like sludge. “My—friend works for World Report—”

 

“Your accomplice?”

 

“What? No—”

 

Without warning, two other security guards emerge behind him and begin to pat him down. They move roughly and without any hesitation, running their palms along his legs and torso, feeling the waistband of his jeans, and waving a metal detector wand along every inch of space.

 

“I don’t have anything!” Jae protests.

 

“Are you Park Jaehyung, the musician?”

 

“Yes—”

 

“And did you intend to use this event to physically attack the president?”

 

“No—”

 

“Did you force your accomplice to arrange a media pass to put you in closer proximity to the president?”

 

“No!”

 

Jae clenches his fists and pushes his elbow back against the other security guy who is patting down Jae’s torso again. His face flushes as he yells out, “I didn’t do anything! What do you want?”

 

The security guy behind him shoves into Jae’s back, causing him to stumble forward toward the first security guard. And then everything moves so fast, Jae doesn’t know what’s happening until he’s slammed against a table, his chin hitting down hard on the edge, and his arms are yanked behind his back. He feels the handcuffs clamp around his wrists.

 

“Don’t move,” says a voice over him. A hand presses against his head, pushing his cheek up against the table. His glasses frames break with an audible  _ crack _ .

 

They haul him up and march him out to a van. And all Jae can think as the doors close is the refrain of the last Epik High song he listened to on his way here.  _ People scare me the most. _

  
  
  
  


 

The questioning lasts for hours. By the end, Jae isn’t even sure why they’re still keeping him there—it’s obvious once the security team hands him over to the NIS that they aren’t too keen on keeping him there indefinitely. The president’s modification of the National Security Act has yet to go into effect—one of the questioners tells Jae this outright—so the only thing they are investigating is his attempted act of violence at the plaza. Finally, someone tells him he’s free to go, and shows him out the doors of the building. Then he’s standing on a sidewalk in Gangnam, staring up at the dark night sky.

 

He can’t process his thoughts. He’s dimly aware that he could have gone to  _ jail _ , and yet here he is. His stomach growls. Is he supposed to just—walk down to the nearest convenience store and order some food like nothing happened?

 

It occurs to him to look at his phone. To his shock, he has nearly five hundred unread messages.

 

He opens the first one, which is from—he blinks at the name, just to make sure he’s got it right—Park Jinyoung. The old one.

 

_ I think you just changed history. _

  
  
  
  
  


_ Thursday, December 28, 2023 _

 

**_Watch Now: Day6 Park Jaehyung Arrested after President’s Speech at City Hall_ **

 

_ Park Jaehyung of Day6, whose music was recently banned under the National Security Act, was removed from Seoul City Plaza in handcuffs earlier today after attending President Won’s speech. One witness recorded the event and shared a fifteen minute video on Twitter, commenting, “So we arrest musicians just for being in the wrong place now?” The NIS has not yet released a statement regarding Park Jaehyung. _

  
  


  1. _[+10057, -111]  I am in shock. Of course I thought it was a problem that Park Jaehyung did not complete military duty, but that doesn’t change my opinion of this event. We cannot let the president arrest people just because they disagree with him._



 

  1. _[+9900, -283]  So it seems that the band we can’t talk about had a point after all..._



 

  1. _[+9881, -332]  Did I wake up in the past?_



 

  1. _[+5622, -221]  This Park Jaehyung is a coward… but even cowards have the right to stand in public places_



 

  1. _[+3994, -179] If we accept this change to the National Security Act, there isn’t anything President Won can’t do to his opponents_



 

  1. _[+1953, -184] If you watch his video from before the arrest, you can tell what sort of person Park Jaehyung really is. Maybe he didn’t do military duty, but it is not enough to excuse this act_



 

  1. _[+1286, -444] What country is this? Get out quick..._



  
  
  
  


 

It’s hard to put a finger on the pulse of a nation.

 

A nation is made up, after all, of millions of individuals. Each one of them has individual thoughts, feelings, opinions, gut instincts—each and every person navigating a life under a deluge of information, drifting in one direction or the next. Enough people drift in the same direction, and maybe you’ve got a group thinking more or less alike. Expand that group larger and larger and maybe you’ve got a nation drifting along in the same direction, in agreement on some essential things that can determine the course of the river moving forward.

 

On December 27, 2023, the opinion of South Korea came up against a hard obstacle. They could fork in one direction, or the other. Choose to take the side of the president, or the side of a Kpop Star with a bad reputation.

 

Call it a miracle: they forked toward the latter.

  
  
  
  
  


“Happy New Year!”

 

Jae holds up his hand just in time to catch most of the silly string Wonpil and Dowoon spray with robust delight before it hits him in the face. “Happy New Year,” he returns, pulling the remainder of gunk off of himself.

 

“We have alcohol,” Wonpil says brightly, pulling Jae into his foyer. “And snacks, and punch—but Dowoon spiked that, so we have alcohol.”

 

“How much have you already had?” Jae asks, observing Wonpil’s red cheeks.

 

“Not much!” Wonpil says. He’ll be asleep before midnight, Jae can tell.

 

He follows them into Wonpil’s living room. Inside, Sungjin is fiddling with the record player while Brian gives instructions. Behind them, Wonpil has music playing anyway, a familiar Snow Patrol track floating softly across the room.  _ What if this storm ends? And leaves us nothing, except a memory, a distant echo?  _ Jinyoung and Annie sit on the couch, Jinyoung practicing his all-too-perfect English while Annie nods encouragingly. 

 

Jae looks around at how few people have stuck around through this ordeal. He still doesn’t blame the people who aren’t here, though his heart aches a little, thinking about the cost.

 

“Hyung?” Dowoon says, appearing behind him. He hands Jae a glass. “It’s going to be okay.”

 

“I don’t know about that,” he says, giving him a teasing smile. “But life keeps going, I guess.”

 

He still doesn’t know how he feels about—well, all of it. He’s got a bruise on his chin, a bloom of purple and green that even stage makeup couldn’t hide. He’s spent the last days in a fog, flipping through news stations and thumbing across dozens of articles. The outrage of the nation should make him feel vindicated, but on the whole, he mostly feels tired. It’s a relief to throw a party, however small it may be.

 

They gather around the coffee table once Sungjin gets the record player sorted out. Brian hands out glasses, and once they’re all holding their wine, he holds his up. “To Jae,” he says. He grins. “The Mocking- _ Jae!” _

 

Jae groans at the  _ Hunger Games _ reference. Annie laughs appreciatively, which just bolsters Brian’s confidence in his dumb joke.

 

“I hate you,” Jae says to Brian. But it doesn’t temper the sincerity of the moment, and he can’t really look at anyone as they hold up their glasses to him, clinking them softly against each other. It’s a somber, quiet affair.

 

“So you’re not disbanding?” Jinyoung asks, looking over to Sungjin.

 

“The fans have retracted their petition,” Sungjin says. “So I guess it really comes down to what Jae wants to do.”

 

Besides being the most-covered news story of the week, Jae’s most recent video on yellowpostitman has soared to one million views the last time he checked. Jae shrugs, uncomfortable with the attention. After all, it was only days ago that he lost all of this.

 

“I want to stay together,” Jae says.   


 

“Then there’s no reason to disband,” Sungjin finishes.

 

Jae’s lips curve into a small smile. He looks around at the faces of his band members and sees his emotions reflected on their faces, too.

 

“Well then,” Jinyoung says, and their eyes all snap back to him. “I have an idea.”

 

“You do?” Wonpil asks, looking over at him in surprise. “What kind of idea?”

 

Jinyoung puts a hand on Wonpil’s knee without looking, as if to keep him quiet, and looks around. “I bought this abandoned trainyard,” he says. “It’s really big, on the edge of Seoul, really out of the way.”

 

“And you bought this because?” Brian asks.

 

Jinyoung waves his hand, dismissing Brian’s question. “I got this idea that you all could hold a concert there. I reached out to the people who did our last Got7 concert, and they think it would be doable. You could sell tickets and give the money away, if you wanted. Livestream it. It might be a great way to keep the momentum going.”

 

Jae doesn’t know what to say, imagining it. But he croaks out, “Momentum for what?”

 

Jinyoung looks at him in surprise. “The protests,” he says. He laughs a little in disbelief. “Come on, guys. You’re at the forefront of a national movement. Jae’s the centerpiece of a massive questioning of our political system like we haven’t seen in seven years. Don’t you realize you’re just getting started?”   
  


 

 

_ 005 soundtrack _

[ traditional music ](https://youtu.be/gn2a8N27L1k) |  [ zombie ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Ejga4kJUts) |  [ take this lonely heart ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_UzKgQrRPI) |  [ people scare me ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nFckDQXbZ10) |  [ what if this storm ends ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S0BDS0-ZwOw)

 


	6. track 006 - the battle cry

####  track 006 - the battle cry

* * *

 

 

_ January 15, 2024 _

 

**_NIS Clears Park Jaehyung of All Charges_ **

 

_ The NIS cleared Park Jaehyung of all charges in a statement released earlier today. After completing a thorough investigation, they concluded that “all appearance of ill intent was a matter of coincidence” and stated that they would not be investigating Park Jaehyung further. _

 

_ Park Jaehyung and his band, Day6, terminated their contract with JYP Entertainment in December of last year following undisclosed “contract violations.” The band subsequently became embroiled in the largest national conversation on censorship in a number of years. As of last week, President Won has not yet stepped back on the ban of numerous artists with a wide variety of political agendas, but as protests against the president’s expansion of the National Security Act grow louder, many expect him to reverse course in the next few weeks. _

  
  
  
  
  


_ January 19, 2024 _

 

**_Im Nayeon Announces Break From Entertainment Industry_ **

 

_ Im Nayeon announced on her personal Instagram account yesterday that she plans to take several months away from the entertainment industry in order to “reflect and make decisions about her career.” _

 

_ She wrote: _

 

It’s not a secret that the last few months have been very eventful for me, for my group, and for my company. I think you all have never seen me like this, have you? But I should be honest… In this work I have had so many amazing opportunities, and I have worked hard, but I guess I can’t keep running at this pace forever? Hope precious Once can understand <3

 

_ JYP Entertainment confirmed her announcement in a separate statement, which reads, “We support our artists’ needs to take care of their personal health and well-being and we hope that Twice’s many fans can understand Nayeon’s decision.” _

  
  
  
  
  


_ January 26, 2024 _

 

**_Park Jinyoung of Got7 Founds New Record Label_ **

 

_ Park Jinyoung has founded his own record label, called Icarus and the Sun. He announced the record label to fans yesterday through his Instagram in a caption below a picture of him and his partner, Kim Wonpil, outside the record label’s new office. “I know you expected this to be called JYP Jr.,” he wrote, “But I hope you can accept this, instead.” _

 

_ Icarus and the Sun will house acts like their first signed artist, Day6, and other groups focusing on rock, indie, and alternative music. _

  
  
  
  


 

_ January 31, 2024 _

 

**_President Won Removes Additions to National Security Act_ **

 

_ In response to national protests, President Won has removed several proposed additions to the National Security Act, which would have increased the scope of censorable material and made numerous individuals subjects of criminal investigations. This announcement was made only one day after President Won stated his intention to initiate negotiations with North Korea, following months of tense relations.  _

 

_ The additions to the National Security Act were announced over a month ago, but were not well-received, in part due to the arrest and questioning of Park Jaehyung, a popular musician, immediately after the announcement. Park attended the president’s speech after posting numerous videos criticizing the president’s responses to the threat of war and promoting pacifism as a preferable alternative. _

 

_ Without the proposed additions, the National Security Act will not put penalties of fines or jail time on individuals found in violation of the act’s restrictions. Whether or not new additions will be proposed remains to be seen. _

  
  
  
  
  


One month and five days after the incident, Jae stands under a tent at the far end of an abandoned train lot, staring out a the bright orange and indigo of the setting sun streaking across the distant sky. Next to him, his friend David leans against the pole holding the tent up, holding out his phone to record everything Jae says.

 

“So,” David prompts, “You’ve turned into this poster child for the conversation about censorship, and authoritarianism, and pacifism—not just here in Korea, but worldwide. How do you carry that responsibility?”

 

Jae runs a hand through his still-too-short hair and considers the past month. His social media feeds are completely unmanageable, at this point. When David called him to ask if he could fly in to write a story about Jae and the band, it almost seemed like a normal progression of events. Of course David, his super-successful writer friend, would want to cover this. Everyone had something to say about this, from your average Korean netizen right on up to the New York Times.

 

But he gets it. Dumb jokes aside, his incident became a visual representation of fears too difficult to articulate. No matter how much President Won had done to fix many problems in their country, he had crossed a line into territory the people wouldn’t accept, and Jae was the first one caught in the fire. It was a story old as civilization. Why it was him, and not someone else, who became the symbol of this moment, Jae doesn’t know.

 

“Honestly,” Jae says, “I don’t know that I can do that much. Censorship is a complicated topic. I’m not going to pretend that I’m the smartest person in the room, and—like, listen, we’ve all run across some vile, awful ideas on the internet. So I get it. But then, when it comes to this kind of top-down policy, where people are getting arrested or penalized for ideas that are different from the people in power—that’s just like spitting in the face of our history. Are we really gonna go back to that?”

 

“You’re not going to let that happen, I’d guess.”

 

“Not without a fight,” Jae says. He grins. “My kind of fight.”

 

“Like this concert?” David prompts. He gestures toward the stage out on the other end of the lot, where Jae can see the silhouettes of his band members, running through last-minute arrangements on the stage.

 

“Yeah, man,” Jae says. “One great rock show can change the world.”

 

David arches an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a quote from somewhere?”

 

“Jack Black.  _ School of Rock. _ ”

 

“You—you want me to quote Jack Black in your first major longform profile?”

 

“Um, yeah? It’s a masterpiece of modern cinema!” Jae taps at David’s phone. “Write that down. Jack Black.  _ School of Rock. _ ”

 

“I think I’ve got it,” David says, laughing.

 

Before he can continue, two people round the corner of the tent, immediately calling out Jae’s name and blocking his view of the stage. Jae blinks in surprise—he hadn’t looked over the guest list for this at all, but he never would have guessed that Nichkhun and Taecyeon would show up.

 

“Come here,” Taecyeon instructs, pulling Jae forward to stand beside him while Nichkhun holds up his phone. “Look cute.”

 

“Is cute really the best—” Jae begins while Taecyeon holds up a finger-heart. The flash goes off before Jae can say anything else.

 

“You’re now Captain Korea’s sidekick,” Nichkhun says, handing the phone back to Taecyeon.

 

“Great,” Jae deadpans, unsure of what to say. His head is still spinning as he tries to piece everything together, but one thing he already knows is that Taecyeon posting a picture of the two of them is going to undo a lot of damage that still follows every post about Jae and Day6. He has no idea how to say thank you for that, but he shakes Taecyeon’s outstretched hand and by the gleam in his eyes, he already knows. 

 

They exchange small talk for a few minutes before Nichkhun puts a hand on Jae’s shoulders and ushers him out, Taecyeon taking the lead and David trailing behind them, taking notes. “There’s a lot of people here to see you,” Nichkhun says.

 

As they turn the corner to the makeshift backstage area, Jae is shocked all over again. The area is filled with VIP guests. The first thing he notices is how many of JYP Entertainment’s old guard have turned up for this—Jo Kwon and Sunye stand a few feet away talking to Sungjin; Wooyoung, Suzy, and Yubin are huddled around Jinyoung and laughing at something on his phone; Yeeun is posing for a photo with Hyuna by the stage. Besides that, RM, fresh in from the US no doubt, is laughing with Wonpil, and Brian and Annie are talking with the guys from The Rose, and there are tons of other people besides them, too many for Jae to count.

 

He scans the whole area for someone else, but doesn’t find her. The last time he talked to Lim was a few weeks ago, after she was questioned by the NIS for hours about why she’d given him her media badge. It was her statement that finally cleared his name, and he feels sort of weird that there are some NIS agents out there who know his entire relationship history—but it was also another one of those moments when he really didn’t know how to say thank you. They talked about a lot of things when they met for coffee one rainy morning, talked more freely than they had in a few months. He’s still not sure if they can reconcile—as friends or otherwise—but he’d invited her to the concert, hoping she would do for him what he’d done for her: just go, in order to understand. He hopes she decided to come. He tries not to think about it, but can't stop himself from examining each face, anyway.

 

“So I guess this is a pretty big deal,” Jae says, trying to distract himself and craning to look over his shoulder at David. He has his phone out, and he grins back at Jae, his eyes gleaming with the vision of an award-winning article hovering in the distance.

 

One of the event staff calls for the band to get ready, and Jae says goodbye to Nichkhun, making his way over to the stage while bobbing up and down as he bows to everyone he passes. There’s so many faces that he doesn’t have much chance to think, but he scans the crowd, and stumbles over his feet when he sees the back of a familiar head down at the far end, between Sunye and Sunmi. She turns and—he can’t be sure, but he thinks she sees him, and smiles.

 

It’s enough. Enough for now.

 

And then he’s standing behind the stage with his band, pulling the guitar strap over his head and looking around at the other four. It wasn’t that long ago that they’d decided to disband, but here they are, about to put on the weirdest concert of their career.

 

“Okay,” Sungjin says, drawing back his shoulders. “So this is the first time we’re playing these songs live, but I’m not nervous.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Brian says skeptically, giving Jae a sideways glance.

 

“I’m not,” Sungjin protests, “Because we’ve got a purpose tonight. Exactly the purpose we started out with: to say something that matters.”

 

“Stick it to the man!” Dowoon yells, adding a weird little jig onto the end.

 

“What’s your name, man!” Wonpil echoes.

 

Jae starts laughing. By the time they all put their hands into the circle, he’s got tears smarting in his eyes, and he looks away. Fortunately, no one calls him on it.

 

They step up onto the stage. For a moment, all Jae can see is the blinding lights sweeping across the stage. But then it passes, and he sees a crowd spread out, and out, far back into the edges of the train yard. The crowd roars.

 

Sungjin holds up a hand and the crowd quiets. “We’d like to start with a tribute,” he says, “To the musicians who inspired us.”

 

Jae begins plucking the notes to the song. They each sing—first Brian, then Wonpil, then Sungjin. Then it’s Jae’s turn.

 

He leans forward to the microphone and manages to sing the first few words before his voice gives out. His ears ring with silence as his fingers go on playing of their own accord, but he can’t remember the words, can’t find his voice, can’t go on.

 

And then he hears it—the echo of the crowd singing the words for him, just like they’ve done so many times before.

 

He manages to play the rest of the song and then steps away from the microphone, pressing his fingers into his eyes and trying not to cry. He’s  _ not _ going to cry.

 

But then he feels someone’s arms slide around him, and then another set, until he’s got the whole band encircling him. Somewhere in the back of his cynical brain a voice says  _ watch the fanvids they make out of this _ , but it doesn’t matter because now he’s got tears streaming down his face and snot seeping out of his nose and if he looks up he can see Brian and Sungjin and Wonpil and Dowoon smiling back at him—maybe crying, he can’t tell, but when has Wonpil passed up an opportunity to cry—and beyond  _ that _ he can hear the whole crowd cheering. Cheering for them. For him.

 

Finally Jae pulls himself together and pushes the other guys away.

 

“Y’all didn’t come here for that,” he says into the microphone, his voice tremoring. “I know y’all came here for a concert. Am I right?”

 

The crowd cheers in response. Jae grins at the others. And then Dowoon launches into the count.

 

For a moment Jae lets it wash over him. Smiles as the rhythm reverberates through the stage, and then steps up for his turn in the spotlight.

 

“ _ You call it madness, _ ” he sings. “ _ We call it a revolution.” _

  
  
  


 

 

 _006 soundtrack_  
[morning dew](https://youtu.be/NDWWDEOPJKs)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember when I got this prompt, I thought, "But I wanted to write Day6! There's no group that embodies this song LESS than Day6! What are they going to do, write a protest album?" And thus, this fic was born.
> 
> I have so, so many people to thank. First off, thank you Olymfics mods for your unwavering support, and thank you I for being my actual hero throughout this whole process. CF1, you guys are amazing.
> 
> I owe a huge, huge thank you to Sh for donating me fake song lyrics and helping me think through titles and for being a constant supporter (and that one time you tried to guilt me into writing but mentioned Jae, my Kpop soulmate, and were thwarted by his real tweets). Another huge thank you to R for also donating me fake song lyrics, for always encouraging my off-the-wall ideas, and for helping me work out so many little plot pieces every time I thought I was about to give up.
> 
> And THANK YOU, THANK YOU to the people who held my hand throughout the writing of this fic. To S, your support means so much. Thank you for the midnight-hour read-through and all the read-throughs before that, and for making me believe this was finishable! To A, I can't tell you how much I appreciated your enthusiasm and investment in this story. Too many times your all-caps commentary was the thing that helped me keep writing!! And to Y, thank you for all the last-minute beta reads, your unwavering affirmation, and all your encouragement. I don't think I could have gotten this plot to make any sense without you, and I definitely couldn't have kept on writing without you!
> 
> This fic would literally not exist without these people. I'm really lucky to have a community of writers around me who make writing so much fun.
> 
> And thank you, readers! I really hope you enjoyed this fic. Please don't forget to vote by taking [this survey](https://forms.gle/EgHqT72o9Gxf9NWeA)!


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